I’m thinking about taking a break from an important relationship in my life.
Yes. I’m thinking about taking a break from Facebook. That bitch is just getting me down.
In the last two weeks, FB has told me about a classmate’s massive stroke and subsequent death; the passing of a classmate’s mom, a woman I’ve known my entire life; and the life-threatening heart attack of a classmate’s dad, a man who was a well-liked teacher when we were in high school.
I can’t handle any more bad news! Plus, it disrupts the natural balance of my world. When I talked to my mom tonight, she was all, “Mrs. Wilson had a heart attack,” and I was all, “Noooo! It was MR. Wilson! I saw it on Facebook!” And that’s just not right. FB is interfering with the flow of the mother / daughter gossip distribution chain.
I will tell you, though, that I’m rejecting another FB friend request. The first rejection was for that bitch who tried to steal my bike shorts in 10th grade. Although I loooooooved Emotional Mullet‘s suggestion to set up a fan page for my bike shorts and ask crazy girl to become a fan. Because that’s just brilliant.
But this other friend request? Well, I didn’t recognize this woman’s name for the longest time because – hello! – she didn’t include her maiden name anywhere. And her picture was of a kid. Didn’t give me a lot to go on.
But Miss Thing changed her profile pic, and I now recognize her as a sorority sister. A sorority sister whom I last saw five years ago. Five years ago … when I was working retail.
Yes. Right after I left Ex-Ex, I subsidized my shitty apartment and supported my freelance writing habit by working at The Body Shop. I learned all about community-trade jojoba oil. I also learned a lot about people based on how they treat retail clerks.
I got mostly immune to the folks who ignore you when you greet them as they enter the store. I still hold a grudge against the woman who snapped at me like a dog, but am proud of myself for smiling pleasantly and walking away as if to say, “You couldn’t possibly be snapping at me.”
But this particular sorority sister? Well, she came in one day when I was stationed by the front door, in my Body Butter t-shirt, apron, and the black pants I’d actually worn to a real job that didn’t involve giving demos of body scrub. A real job where I wasn’t the only employee with a college degree yet constantly assigned broom duty.
So, Ms. Thing comes in and I recognize her immediately.
Me: Ms. Thing! How are you?
Ms. Thing, breezing past me: Hi. I’m married and have a son.
She never slowed down. She was not in a hurry. She spent 15 minutes in the tiny store and did not speak to me for the rest of her visit.
I was wearing a fucking name tag and my cheeks burned. Because sometimes? Even when you’re voted Most Involved in your sorority and you’re a queen candidate and you have the best grades in the house and you get pinned your senior year and you’re basically an overachieving nightmare? Even then, you can end up making $7 an hour and being judged on your ability to Windex shelves and promote mascara.
And that’s why I’m overly nice to retail clerks. And that’s why I’m ignoring yet another FB friend request.