Working retail is like taking care of a puppy — you have to wait on another’s every need, and if you aren’t careful, you’ll end up with urine on your face. Why I devoted so long to getting facially Jackson Pollock’d on a daily basis is beyond me. Call it masochism or call it a need to pay rent, just don’t call it a good decision. The entire time I spent in retail, which was around 8 years in total, I looked for opportunities to get out. “Nothing could be worse than this,” I naively thought, never considering those that work for pennies making the shoes I browse on Zappos.com every night. Little did I know that most jobs are comparable to working retail. Whether it was working the desk at a library, or talking up insurance agents, I always seem to end up with some puggle peeing on my metaphorical rug. And it’s a shame, because it really tied my metaphorical room together.
Even if monies are not traded back and forth, it seems that most occupations involve selling of some sort. Just because you’re not behind a cash register, slinging fries or Cuisinarts, it doesn’t mean it’s not “sell sell sell” all the time. I spend all day trying to appease people, coming as close as I can to breaking the truth barrier without actually stepping over. Basically, I’m selling them a heaping dose of compromise and peace of mind. I’ll say anything and everything to get them off the phone without them calling me an unbending cocksucker. A good five times a day, I feel like I just took a tongue bath from an old man, a fresh 10 spot laying on my bedside table.
What this means, I suppose, is that there is no getting away from the retail life. Every job entails a little bit of ass-kissing; even the Pope has to smooch Yahweh’s ring every now and again. He probably likes it though, puts on the myrrh-flavored chapstick every five minutes. And unless I can find a way to be more important than G-d, I will have to continue buying new rugs every couple of months, i.e. shedding the layer of indignity that I’ve been forming since I was 16. Thankfully, I don’t deal with my “customers” on a face-to-face basis. This gives me a larger level of respect for retail workers than I had before. Being able to grin and bare it through the most hardened of needless complainers is an incredible accomplishment and kudos to you, sirs and madams. I’m just some schmo at a desk who wishes mouth cancer on a random indignant voice hundreds of miles away.
So, what jobs don’t involve butt-smooching? Here’s the short list:
Being Han Solo
That’s it. I only want one of those jobs, and I don’t think I have the experience and/or the education to acquire it. My MA in Space Princess Wooing is from University of Phoenix Online and we all know that ain’t worth the paper it’s printed on.