Therapy in the toy store: Part ll

Do you know who gets the best therapy at the toy store? It’s me! Yes, me, me, ME!

I love the people I work with and for. They ‘get’ me without trying, in a way that is rare here (they’re East Coasters – I wonder if that helps.) It’s not often in America that I can relax as I make the darkest worst taste jokes, and know they’ll be received with guffaws of hilarity, and that the thread will be picked up and continued with. There’s nothing I love better than a running joke, and we have a few of them scampering around the aisles.

I love the space. It’s not mine, you see. There’s not that inescapable feeling that I could be… should be… tidying, cleaning or repairing something, somewhere. Am I the only stay-at-home mum who can’t relax in her own home? At least I used not to be able to, but now I can, because now home is where I’m off work, not where I’m at work.

I love the variety the job brings to my life. I love how in the morning I think to myself “ooh, work today, good!”, or “ooh, a day at home, just what I need!”. I love how I no longer have to be so self-sufficient. Being at home full-time is a tough call, sometimes.

I love the change in myself that the job has wrought. It’s as if someone directed me to the shelf marked ‘confidence toys’, and let me choose the one I wanted. I’ve overcome my early fears. I’m not afraid of the till. I’m not afraid of the credit card swiping machine. I’m not afraid of doing returns. I’m not afraid of coupons and discounts. I’m not afraid of answering the phone. I’m not afraid of customers (and they’re pretty scary when you first start). I’m not afraid of gift-wrapping while someone is watching me, or while several people are watching me (which is very different to gift wrapping at your own kitchen table, trust me). I’m not even afraid of the wayward raffia. That stuff has a mind of its own, but my authoritative fingers can now deftly tame it without fail into a delightful bow.

I love wearing make-up and decent(ish) clothes when I’m there. I’ve noticed (and I love this too) that all the clothes I’ve bought since I’ve started work have been strong colours: plum, raspberry, teal, mustard yellow. Get me. I’ve never worn anything mustard yellow before. Oh. Wait. Not true. In 1988, I had a mid-calf-length wool skirt from Benetton which was mustard yellow. But that was more of a subtle French mustard, not a statement Colman’s English mustard, and I always wore it with grey or black, not daringly paired with other equally assertive tones as I do now. Speaking of Benetton, whatever happened to Benetton? We all thought Benetton was the last word in cool, high street, natty dressing at one time. That’s retail for you, though. Tough business. I should know. Did I mention that I’m in retail now?

Where was I? Ah yes, the confidence that the job has brought me. I nearly died of sheer unadulterated pleasure when a customer thanked me for helping them, and said “you’re very good at your job”. Two people in the week before Christmas made a point of telling the store owner, in front of me, that I’d found them exactly what they needed. One of them used the word ‘awesome’, actually. (*blushes*) (*face clashes with mustard top*) I’ve noticed that people who come in trying to sell advertising space or whatever it is, now ask me “are you the owner?” rather than “can I speak with the owner?”

They warned me from the outset, when I started in September, how crazy busy the shop would be for the whole of December. They painted a picture of madness, chaos, unrelenting pressure, trials and tribulations. And guess what? I loved every moment. Every single moment. I thrived on the continuous activity. I drank in the atmosphere like a tonic. I flourished. I’m actually a bit bored, now it’s January.

One more thing I love, and this one has taken me by surprise. I love contributing to the family income. It’s not much. I’m on an hourly rate which is embarrassingly close to the minimum wage, and I don’t clock up many hours. But it’s a good feeling nonetheless. I didn’t know that about myself. I always thought I didn’t mind at all that Husband was the sole breadwinner.

I recently missed a reunion dinner at my old university. A friend sent some photos, and as I looked at the faces in the pictures, I reflected on how topsy-turvy life often is. Most of those people, all of them probably, are in well-paid, high-powered jobs (let’s face it, the ones who aren’t, don’t pitch up so much at the reunions). Their jobs are appropriate to the education we together received. And I’m not saying that they’re not successful, satisfied, stimulated, happy in their jobs. But I do know this. None of them, not one single one, will be getting the same unmingled joy out of each day, each hour of each day, that I am, in my lowly sales assistant position, in my small unknown toy shop, in my out-of-the-way crevice of this fly-over state.

I’m not naïve. I know that this job won’t keep me happy forever. I know that I’ll get bored before too long. I know that I’m capable of more, and that I’ll be restless to experience and prove that. But when it came my way, this job was a godsend. The last job I had was the opposite. The children were aged 1, 4 and 7: one at home, one at preschool, one at big school. A challenging time to return to work, by any account. But Husband was suddenly, unexpectedly, unfairly, unemployed. I worked half-time to see us through, in a job which on paper seemed interesting, challenging, do-able, suitable for someone with my educational background and employment history. But it was a nightmare. I resigned at the end of the first week, in fact, but was persuaded back. The experience sucked all my confidence out of me, and though I knew in a rational way that it was the job description, the organisation, the people who were to blame, not me, that didn’t stop the sucking process. It ended badly. So over the past couple of years, as much as I was chasing a green card, I was secretly always relieved when it didn’t come, because I was so scared of the world of work. But now, as I said, I’m not even scared of the raffia. I’ve come a long way. It’s not often you’re on the payroll for your own therapy.

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