I heard from my mom who heard from my aunt that Dress Barn is hiring. Actually, Dress Barn is desperate for help. While she was making her purchases, my aunt was solicited by the cashier, who asked if she knew of anyone who wanted to work. The aunt didn't volunteer my name, which is surprising considering how the older generation of my family seems to jump at the opportunity to volunteer one of their spry young kin for some sort of disagreeable task as though by being related this sort of thing is acceptable and should at times be appreciated--but I digress... All of this just happened to transpire on the Saturday--let's face it, one of the many Saturdays--when I was in the middle of (another) existential crisis revolving around my current unemployment, my future aspirations (or lack thereof) and the prospect of a perpetual wealth of possibilities (all of which I know I am capable of succeeding at, the real dilemma being which to do first).
Any other day, I would not have settled for working in retail. Retail is the one area of employment I just can't see myself working in. I would be much more content delivering pizzas--happy even--if such an occupation were not so disregarded by my parents for one, but folding blouses and dressing mannequins? Hell no. And especially not at Dress Barn. The name itself sparks images in my head of boxy, matronly dresses and floors covered in sawdust. (My sister bought her Confirmation/eighth grade graduation dress from Dress Barn. It was a rose-colored, button-down, full-length dress covered in little rosettes down the front, with short sleeves and a collar...and shoulder pads, epic shoulder pads. It was 1995, and I was in first grade, but don't let that fool ya. I developed a speedy and steadfast aversion to Dress Barn and everything that name summoned up into my over-active mind. That's how I was as a child, attributing characteristics to people and places based on their names; growing up I was terrified of the flea market...)
So that was the ongoing prejudice for Dress Barn that I began my day with, as I do everyday, whether conscious of it or not. And yet, after I heard of the job opportunity, I was so...conflicted. They are desperate. I am desperate. Wouldn't that be a match made in heaven? a blissful marriage where all needs are met, at least the basic need of an employee and employment, respectively?
Here was a J-O-B, an adult situation to add to my life that would also add some numbers to my shrinking bank account while also allowing me to create an alternate universe for myself, one in which I help middle-aged women with no sense of style find clothes to feed that taste. Of course, as this other person in this other world, I would actually enjoy my new-found calling, going so far as to adhere to a frumpy dress code consisting of floor length, floral skirts and pastel tank tops...but not sexy, low-cut tank tops. I'm talking about the ones where the sleeveless-ness begins right at the armpit, sort of where Barbie's arm attaches to her plastic shoulder; imagine what Barbie looks like when her arms fall out and you would see me, except, this pastel tank top I will take to wearing will not show off my (nonexistent) curves, and the only sex appeal will be generated by the obtrusiveness of the seam of my bra, crossing straight across the cup: above the seam is lace, below is silk (in case you were wondering what the seam is for). That's about as risqué as it gets, and that's not saying much. But if I'm feeling frisky, I might get a perm; girls with straight hair always spend their lives wishing they could have those lush curls...and vice versa.
Have I sunk so low? Is money really more important than my own self-worth? And even if I didn't start dressing as though every day were Easter Sunday, would my happiness remain intact? Debatable.
Reluctantly, I agree to run errands with my mom, mostly to get out of the damn house, which is beginning to feel a bit like a prison cell, a stifling, soul-sucking trap. Before we leave, though, I add Dress Barn's number to my cellphone, hoping my spirits will rally before my desperation presses the TALK button.
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