A punching bag- that’s what this girl seems to be. Like a speedbag, she keeps coming back for more of the relentless jabs.
Having a dud of a guest is one thing. As the worker, you have to tolerate them for all of an hour as they are also the one tipping you. Having a dud of a coworker is another story. You can’t escape the situation so you might as well try your best to chin up and deal.
Her name is Gretchen*- the one person who ever says something completely off-color enough to make an entire room of people fall silent upon entering—pin-drop silent.
The sound of her voice. Simply that raspy, “Hey guys!” that you’d hear float
through the kitchen after her 14th cigarette break of the shift.
It makes your muscles instinctively tighten ever so slightly, and your face helplessly
cringes.
You grit your teeth as soon as you become shrouded in that cloud of
stale Marlboro Reds doused in hopes to camouflage with tacky and overbearing
floral perfume potent enough to make a grown man nauseous.
It’s like hearing a very inappropriate joke come out of a five-year-old’s mouth, and trying not to laugh because you know you’re only encouraging wrongful behavior. Hearing the word, “hand job”, repeated over and over again is not what I look forward to on my lunch shift, much less Gretchen’s SEXplicit stories of spending the weekend at a Motel 6 with her boyfriend. I would rather choke down Fifty Shades of Grey, cover-to-cover, if given the option. Her sense of humor is a handshake from someone who just blew their nose- you just don’t accept it.
As Gretchen is sitting there, making up yet another excuse to leave our lunch shift early, insults roll through my head- and then I suddenly become painfully aware of what I’m thinking.
My Lunchbox Days.
It brings me back to those red, white and navy plaid jumpers and Doc Marten Mary Janes. My experience in a Catholic grade school was nothing to be envied. Every day brought on another form of ridicule, another new way of understanding why I was not “good” enough to be friends with those from wealthier families.
The lunch room was assigned seating which meant I could not escape the glares from Dana and Danielle. “Bologna?!” They would squeal and start to make gagging noises. “Don’t you know what is in that? I would die if my parents packed my lunch the way yours do. That’s disgusting. Don’t eat that in front of me. I might get sick.” Upset, I could feel my face grow hotter. The tears splashed down, hot and salty, into my brown bag sandwich. After that day, I began holing myself up in the bathroom- the only sanctuary at that school.
Day after day. Week after week. A seven year period from when it had first transpired. You think I would have learned something from that prison sentence created in Catholic school. “Love thy neighbor as thou love thyself.” Bullshit. I was sick of being stepped on. Being bullied was a tough pill to swallow—to understand at a young age that not everyone was going to like you, for reasons beyond your own control. And that was just a part of life.
Since then, it’s been a constant battle with my conscience.
Forever ago I was the person in Gretchen’s shoes. I’ve apparently come to be the bully.
Neither is a very good position to be in.
But when I look at Gretchen, insecure and unsure of herself, I see a ten year old me, struggling and alone.
Since when did I become the one, armed with a bundle of sticks and stones, poised and ready to take aim?
When did I adopt this idiot mantra, “If you can’t beat them, join them," and undergo the
metamorphosis to become this Mean Girl?
It’s like hearing a very inappropriate joke come out of a five-year-old’s mouth, and trying not to laugh because you know you’re only encouraging wrongful behavior. Hearing the word, “hand job”, repeated over and over again is not what I look forward to on my lunch shift, much less Gretchen’s SEXplicit stories of spending the weekend at a Motel 6 with her boyfriend. I would rather choke down Fifty Shades of Grey, cover-to-cover, if given the option. Her sense of humor is a handshake from someone who just blew their nose- you just don’t accept it.
As Gretchen is sitting there, making up yet another excuse to leave our lunch shift early, insults roll through my head- and then I suddenly become painfully aware of what I’m thinking.
My Lunchbox Days.
It brings me back to those red, white and navy plaid jumpers and Doc Marten Mary Janes. My experience in a Catholic grade school was nothing to be envied. Every day brought on another form of ridicule, another new way of understanding why I was not “good” enough to be friends with those from wealthier families.
The lunch room was assigned seating which meant I could not escape the glares from Dana and Danielle. “Bologna?!” They would squeal and start to make gagging noises. “Don’t you know what is in that? I would die if my parents packed my lunch the way yours do. That’s disgusting. Don’t eat that in front of me. I might get sick.” Upset, I could feel my face grow hotter. The tears splashed down, hot and salty, into my brown bag sandwich. After that day, I began holing myself up in the bathroom- the only sanctuary at that school.
Day after day. Week after week. A seven year period from when it had first transpired. You think I would have learned something from that prison sentence created in Catholic school. “Love thy neighbor as thou love thyself.” Bullshit. I was sick of being stepped on. Being bullied was a tough pill to swallow—to understand at a young age that not everyone was going to like you, for reasons beyond your own control. And that was just a part of life.
Since then, it’s been a constant battle with my conscience.
Forever ago I was the person in Gretchen’s shoes. I’ve apparently come to be the bully.
Neither is a very good position to be in.
But when I look at Gretchen, insecure and unsure of herself, I see a ten year old me, struggling and alone.
Since when did I become the one, armed with a bundle of sticks and stones, poised and ready to take aim?
When did I adopt this idiot mantra, “If you can’t beat them, join them," and undergo the
metamorphosis to become this Mean Girl?
I sigh, shake my head, and continue cutting the lemons- sour, like myself.
- LM
Photo Credit:
The Diplomat
“Sadaf Rahimi- New Boxing Star?”http://thediplomat.com/sport-culture/2012/03/12/sadaf-rahimi-%E2%80%93-new-boxing-star/
"Health Minds. Health Lives. How to Bully-Proof Kids"http://apa.healthyminds.blogspot.com
"Are Girls Expected to Be Nice? Or Do Mean Girls Breed Mean Girls?"www.cosmoradiowakeup.comPhoto Credit:
The Diplomat
“Sadaf Rahimi- New Boxing Star?”http://thediplomat.com/sport-culture/2012/03/12/sadaf-rahimi-%E2%80%93-new-boxing-star/
"Health Minds. Health Lives. How to Bully-Proof Kids"http://apa.healthyminds.blogspot.com
YOUTUBE The Friend Nobody Likeshttp://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0U9X-UXiR0U
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