As my customer service career comes to a welcome close, I feel the need to reassess all the foibles of the profession, perhaps to understand how I went this long without attempting suicide with an elaborate set up involving bubble wrap dispensers. A small incident occurred this afternoon that assuaged any complicated hang-ups I may have been harbouring, and it's all thanks to one of my frequent special guests--you guessed it!--crazy trust-fund, thick make-up, hobbit lady.
Beads of sweat glistened on her inhumanly colored forehead as she set down three shopping bags from the Boston College bookstore (the woman owns more paraphernalia than a proud alumni father) and began to explain, once again, that she has too much homework. She completed her weekly scratchy, scrawly fax quicker than usual, but had to go digging around in her cavernous purse for ten more cents in order to settle up. A line developed behind her, but I continued to smile and nod in her general direction in response to whatever she may have been mumbling over the faint honk of the marching band music sounding from her headphones. She finally left, and I was able to help the next customer, who commented: "You're very nice. Most people aren't."
It was as if my years of servitude suddenly paid off; I have probably been brightening days left and right, giving a tiny speck of respectability to retail (the latter portion could be speculation). Her comment nearly moved me to tears, which is why this line of work is no longer for me--an oversensitive, hyper-analytical sweetheart with a cheery demeanor that shouldn't be wasted on the 90% of my customers who come in demanding services that don't exist at prices that can't exist. Farewell, customer service. You taught me lessons I never wanted to learn.
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