Scene: Interior, office, day. Our heroine sits in front of a desk, holding a Panera to-go cup. Across the desk is The Boss, late thirties, blonde, holding a pen and reading from a piece of paper.
I was written up at work today.
This is my third write up since getting re-hired at the Pier over a year ago. I'll admit it, I deserved that first one. I went to work hung over on a Sunday morning, sat on the counter, and got busted when Austin watched the security tape. No biggie.
But since starting at the Springfield store on June 4th, I've been written up twice for failure to get enough people to sign up for the store's credit card. My boss today was trying to motivate me, guilt me even, into giving the hard sell. She tried to convince me that getting people to open the card was the only way to help save people money during this recession, we aren't doing it for the store, we're doing it for the customers.
What my boss didn't know is exactly 30 minutes before she paged me to the office, I decided to stop judging myself by other people's standards. I cause myself so much mental distress by trying to compare myself to other people. So what if I have friends who have been married now for a year or more? So what if I didn't go to seminary? So what if some people don't think I'm getting a "real degree"? So what if I don't get 1 IC for every 35 transactions? This job, other people's standards and relationships, they don't (and won't) define me.
I pay attention to my customers, I give them ideas and help them materialize their "dream rooms". My customer service ability is excellent. I actually care about the people who walk in to the store and I don't want to see them rack up thousands of dollars of debt with a 25% interest rate. Don't get me wrong, I really really really like being employed, but I have a hard time forcing something on people who possibly can't afford it. When you say "Oh no I have too much debt already" to me, I take you seriously.
I made a loud sucking noise as I decimated the last of the iced tea in my cup, smiled and signed my name on the write-up sheet. Is it August yet?
End scene.
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5 comments:
Oh write ups. So much fun. We should start a club.
Microdermal transplant? Wouldn't it be an implant, or does it come from someone else's body? Okay, really I know nothing about this, but I'm curious. (Your post on Stephanie's wall showed up on my mini-feed. Sorry for being a creepster.)
When do I get to see you again?
Was the theme to Daria playing while this was going on by any chance? Because I've been trying to develop my prophetic edge lately and I'm pretty sure I heard some angel humming it while I was reading this.
Kat- Thanks for reminding me why I shouldn't facebook while exhausted. :-)
Kayla- No Daria theme, but if it happens again I'll totally hum it under my breath. ;-)
As a costumer who is ridiculously tired of the hard sell, thank you for not pushing it on someone who has said no multiple times.
Also, to your boss- we're not in a recession. Look up the defintion and she'll see we're not in one. Stop pushing the flippin' cards.
Now if you'll excuse me, I must go apply the third layer of aloe.
And please excuse the typo of customer... stupid exhaustion...
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