the elusive plan B

Two middle-aged, well-dressed woman approach me.

"Do you work here?" they ask, knowing that I do.  I am wearing no coat. I am carrying no purse.  And I am wearing a metal name tag attached to my sweater.

"Yes, how can I help you?" I respond, ever eager to offer assistance.

"We are looking for the ladies' lounge, the one that has big comfortable chairs in it where we can sit and relax. What floor is that on?"

I don't recall any ladies' lounge that has big comfy chairs. But trying to be helpful I respond, "I'm not sure I know the lounge you're describing  but it's  definitely not the one on this floor. Maybe try four? They have a nice ladies' lounge." 

"You work here, right?" one of the women sarcastically asks, implying that I should know the decor details of every bathroom in this 10-story building. 

I bite my tongue and say, "I'm sorry, but I'm not exactly sure where it is, but I know the one on four is very nice and does have a small sofa."

They walk away talking to each other, but loud enough for me to hear. "I can't believe she doesn't know; she should."

And then I feel bad. Belittled. Disrespected. And treated like some low-life unworthy of their time.

Of course I know I shouldn't feel bad. That this has nothing to do with me and everything to do with them. But I can't help how things affect me.

When I have a good day I think, I like selling and I'm good at it. I love the interaction with interesting people. I like that they depend on me for having style and knowing the merchandise. 

But when I have a bad day, which is happening far too frequently, I think, I can't believe I'm doing this. Clocking in and out. Getting paid almost nothing. Being dismissed by people who act as if I'm beneath them. Knowing I am now part of the working poor. 

I come home, like I do tonight, feeling crippled from the 17,358 steps I walked in little leather booties, and just want to cry.

My effort on a bad day is no less than on a good one. The only difference is in my pay check.

So a colleague asks, "Okay. I hear you. So what's your Plan B?"

I wish I had a good answer. I don't. But I do know I have to find one.  My pocketbook and my mental health are screaming, "YOU'VE GOT TO GET OUT."

I'd even consider a Plan C or D. The bar I've set is not that high. I need a fair and reliable salary, in an environment where I won't constantly be feeling bad about myself.

Really, how hard can that be? Apparently, pretty hard.