I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 57
I was at my local grocery store doing some shopping on my day off. I dress extremely casual on days I don’t work; this particular day I was wearing ripped jeans that were more hole than pant, a vibrantly colored tie dye top with no bra, had my hair up in a dirty bandana since I’d been doing some housework, was wearing beat to crap, paint-splattered shoes, and had visible dirt on my arms and under my nails from gardening.
Yes, I’m a mess, but this is all relevant.
My husband and I split up to find some different things, and as I was walking past an aisle, a woman leaped over and stood right in front of me. I stop to avoid slamming into her, and she immediately starts asking me where to find things.
We happened to be by a clothing section where they had mirrors, and I glanced over at my horrendously filthy and sloppy appearance, looked back at the woman, looked over my shoulder to see if there was an employee behind me, but nope. This woman saw the most dirty and disheveled woman in the entire store, perhaps our entire small town, and thought to herself, “Ah, yes, this braless, filthy hippie whose clothes are being held on her body by optimistic threads and a quantifiable amount of visible dirt, CLEARLY she works here!”
I gently interrupted her and told her I didn’t work there, gesturing at… well, all of me.
It should have been immediately apparent by glancing at my clothes that no respectable place of business would ever allow an employee to walk out on the sales floor looking like I did.
Woman: *Scoffing.* “You’re just trying to get out of helping me! If you don’t know where things are, then you’re not very good at your job, are you?!”
Me: “Oh, I’m excellent at my job! Sadly, for you, my job is at a college about twenty miles from here, and I’m off today. I don’t think we could enroll you, however, as you looked at me and the way I’m dressed and legitimately thought I worked here. We require a slightly higher level of intelligence from prospective students. I doubt you’d be able to pass orientation, ma’am.”
And I walked off, leaving her spluttering in frustration. Honestly, how did she confuse my disheveled and filthy self for an employee? It’s been years, and I still am baffled.
Related:
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 56
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 55
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 54
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 53
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 52
