Guilty

Work is mind numbingly boring these days. I spent 45 minutes the other day sitting on the floor repackaging underwear. Although I must say that working in the lingerie department was a welcome change from the frantic pace at the ladies fitting room. If I have to tell one more woman she doesn't look fat in a bathing suit, I'm going to lose it. I don't know why they're asking me anyway. I wouldn't ask a stranger in Wal-Mart how I looked in a swim suit. And I'm a terrible liar too. I've tried to come up with a handful of vague but encouraging responses that I can use in most situations. People who look good know they look good. If you have to ask, you probably don't.

The men's fitting room is much less hectic and men are much more docile shoppers than women in general, but you will get the occasional pervert asking you to measure his inseam. So right now I'm happy to be assigned to the lingerie department. I invented a game to help make putting boxed bras away fun. It's called "Guilty" and works like this: I take a quick glance at the model on the bra box that I need to return to the shelf and pretend that she's committed a crime (because so many crimes are committed by smiling women wearing only bras). Then I go through the aisles of boxed bras as if they were a police line-up and try to identify the suspect. This process takes a long time and makes my very simple job a bit harder. But unfortunately, the game is getting easier and less fun now because they've all become so familiar to me. I feel like I know them. I've named some of them. I might be going crazy. I think I'll let the madness take me. It'll be easier that way.

I tried carrying snacks around in my vest as tasty entertainment and to keep my morale up but fruit flies kept following me. I hate my job.