Singing Off Key

My favorite thing about being a manager at the yoga store was the key, the one attached to the spiral corded bracelet that I wore proudly around my upper arm. As far as self importance goes, well, it really don't get any better than that.

Today I went to the store for the last time. Reluctantly, I turned in my key, but only after I carefully examined all the cute new things that arrived while I was on vacation and took full advantage of my deep discount. It was weird, being back in the store for the first time in two weeks. I was really just a customer, yet I felt most comfortable behind the counter, near the registers. I felt compelled to tell other customers how good they looked in everything -- as if they cared about my opinion. I insisted on putting away every item from my fitting room myself, carefully stowing the hangers where only employees are supposed to go. I strode bravely into the back room to pee in the employee bathroom one last time, the one I never got around to cleaning. The toilet paper was running low, so I replaced it. I resisted the urge to straighten out some of the back stock as I made my way back out to the floor.

Sometimes I get confused; I don't know, really, where I fit in. Behind the counter or out on the floor? All these choices, and I am so afraid of making another bad one. At least I seemed to know my place in the other stores I visited on the way to my car, although I did probably hover a bit too close to the business side of the register. Each time a salesperson repeated the same words from the script I have repeated so many times in the past year, I wanted to tell her to save it. "My pleasure," said the woman in the Nordstrom shoe department when I sent her back for the umpteenth time to search for the perfect pair of wedges. Yeah, right, I wanted to say. I'm also pretty well acquainted with the script reserved for pain in the ass customers who depart empty handed. My ego is a bit deflated these days, so I purchased two pairs, just so they wouldn't call me names.

Well it's back to square one for Jill Ocean, which maybe isn't such a bad thing. I'm unemployed, have dumped or been dumped by every man in my life, and I still don't know how I'm going to afford that damn trailer. Things could be worse, I suppose. At least I have a nice tan.

I think I am going to treat myself to my very own spiral corded bracelet with a key attached, just so I can peek at my upper arm every now and then and know that I am truly important. Maybe the key will even open some new doors, help me figure out where I belong.