Working at Aeropostale is like making love to an obese spouse - physically exhausting, unfulfilling, and during the act, no outwardly perceivable exhaustion or distress is permitted. I am a talking piece of furniture, a lumpy, disheveled mannequin permitted sense and awareness but prohibited freedom of movement or expression. I wear the Aeropostale clothing, or rather, Aeropostale, Inc. displays their clothing upon my body. I can't even have body odor - I have body fragrance - 'A87', a scent specially engineered to send teenage girls into consumptive mania.
After every shift, I literally go insane. It began right after my first shift when I got into my car and shut the door. At first, I just talked to myself - what I was going to do when I got home, I was hungry, etc. Then I became aware of how much I enjoyed the sound of my voice, and how much fun it was to say the word Aeropostale. Loudly. It quickly escalated, and now, every drive home is inevitably accompanied by a flood of random, shouted vocalizations. This has, to my intense bewilderment and slight dismay, become habit, ritual even, starting without any sort of intent or awareness as I pull out of the mall's parking lot. Most of the time, it's not even words. The entertainment of choice for yesterday's drive home was the word 'kentachi', voiced in varying tones, volumes, pitches, and tempoes. (it's the chinese name for the KFC franchise in Taiwan)
Also, I just worked tax free weekend, which meant 100 people in the store all day, and 20 people in line for the 4 dressing rooms. The store by the way is only about two times the size of my bedroom.
Been reading a lot...I just plowed through Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell, Brave New World, Interpreter of Maladies, and 1984.
more about those later
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