Like a bad fitting dress

I found you in the store and fell in love. You were beautiful on that hanger, shiny, new. So I thought, why not? What could go wrong? When I got you home and put you on, you were the wrong shape for me. You didn't flatter my natural beauty or capture the sparkle in my eyes. Oh, no! You poked me in places where I am soft, squeezed me where I did not wish to be squeezed, and wilted the smile right off of my face.

You are the worst fitting job I have ever had. It's been five days, and already I am over you. You ask me to smile and engage people, then walk away when they give me the wrong answer, yesterday's garbage to be handed off to the next poor schmuck who crosses paths with them. You tell me not to help, not to listen, not to care. I don't know how to cut these things from my being, nor would I want to. They are my brand, my signature. You tell me I must suffer for my reward of wealth and don't acknowledge the work I have already done of building myself up for myself.

Well, I don't like the way you treat me or the customers. I don't like lying to people in order to make the sale. And I won't turn off my heart, not for $12 an hour or for $200,000 a year from now. I can't do it and be at peace with myself.

So I will take you back to the store, and try to find something else. Something maybe a little less shiny but that hugs me in all the right places, makes me smile at how well it fits, and plays to the beauty that is already inside of me. This turning me into something I'm not bull shit isn't for me. Find your next victim. I'm not a commodity. I am a person.