If I could do it over again...

I am on job number eleven. Yes, it has been quite an employment history for this girl, and I don't plan on slowing down. The search for lucky number twelve is well under way. I've done a lot of different things, some of them not so pleasant. I've baristaed, waitressed, raised baby goats, scooped popcorn, catalogued maps. But my current position as a "Sales Associate" for H&M is by far and away the worst job I have ever had in my entire life. (OH, I have to legally give a disclaimer that this is entirely my opinion and does not reflect the beliefs and values of H&M. How ridiculous.)

I don't think it is so much the store itself, or the people that work there. It is the job itself. I thought working for the Mariner's was plenty of retail experience. And I often rolled my eyes at my roommate when she complained about her retail job. But it's horrible. No one should have to live like this. It's mindless folding, registering, and basically being a smiling zombie for eight hours, listening to a lot of Avril Lavigne and Nickelback. But more than that, people treat you sooooo poorly. I have never been so disrespected or ignored in my life. On a day to day basis, the public treats you like absolute shit. I don't understand it. When I put on an H&M nametag, do I somehow become less of a human being. I have so much sympathy and respect for the people who have to do this everyday.

Today, for example, a woman came in and asked me how much this one pair of boots that were on display were. I told her that there were more in the corner under the sweaters. She huffed back a few seconds later, "Um, a-noooooooo they are not."
"Oh," I say. "I'm sorry. They move stuff around a lot. Let me go look around and see if I can find them." I wander the store, trying to find these ugly, clunky things, to no avail. I head back to where she was, but she's gone so I continue refolding sweaters. about ten minutes later she appears.
"Do you even fucking work here or should I get someone else?" I look up, in shock to be spoken to this way. She starts tapping her foot, "Weeeeellll?"
"Sorry, I couldn't find you, or them for that matter. Those might be the only ones we have left."
"How is that possible?"
"We are just out. I don't know what else to tell you."
"Well, how much are those ones on display?"
"I actually don't know, but I can go call a manager on the radio up at the cash register. They can find out."
"What the fuck? Why can't you just tell me how much they are? This is the worst shopping experience of my life!"
"I just don't know how to find the price. I can get someone who can..."
"REEEEEAAAAL good customer service," she glances at my nametag and in a disgusted voice spits out, "ChristEEEne." She brought my birth name into it, and I just lost it.
"Look, lady, I'm sorry. I don't know what you want me to do. I don't understand why you're mad. I don't know what to tell you."
She clicks her clunky heels away, looking for a manager. She yells at the top of her lungs, so everyone can hear, "Good luck still having this job tomorrow, ChristEEEEne!" So, she approached my managers and tried to get me fired. Didn't work. But, she did succeed in making me feel like I had done something wrong, like I was a worthless person, like I was below her. All I could do was go over what I should have said.

Her: "Good luck having this job tomorrow!"
Me: "Good luck with that eternity in hell!"

Her: "How much are those ones on display?"
Me: "Why do you care? They're ugly, just like your soul."

Her: "Do you even work here?"
Me: "Will you go away if I say no?"

Her:"Why can't you just tell me how much they are?"
Me: "I'm trying to ruin your day, that's why. I know the price. To those, and to every item in the entire store, but I'm not telling. Ahahahhaha! Those prices are mine, get your own damn prices."