Coping Mechanisms

Logan airport opened last night, and is still open this morning as I write this. The airport is open, but full of Military Police with rifles. Coast guard ships surround the island in the bay where the airport lays. Boston is once again open for business, but in a new way. I have cheered myself up despite the new security with the following faulty line of logic: it is well known that parts of Boston have harbored and funded the IRA for years ~ so Boston would in turn be protected by the IRA ~ no one in their right mind messes with the IRA ~ Boston is very, very safe. It is doubtful that the United States would let the IRA into the country to help, since they are, after all, terrorists in their own way. But this little logic loop has settled into my mind anyway, and I suppose as an adult I should allow the myth to exist up there for whatever comfort I can get out of it.

Another one of Elizabeth’s Great Coping Mechanisms has also kicked in. I have returned to retail.

It may be true that I swore I was leaving retail forever after last Christmas, my fourth such holiday spent in the front lines of consumer warfare. It is possibly even true that I jumped up upon the children’s reading table at Waldenbooks store #833, and while holding a Muppet over my heart and a copy of _Dangerous_Angels_ over my head, I loudly proclaimed: “AS GOD AS MY WITNESS, I WILL NEVER WORK RETAIL AGAIN!”

But then I looked in my closet one day and realized I haven’t had a lot clothes I really liked since I first started college way back in 1994. I’m six feet tall and square of frame. It’s difficult to find anything that fits me, especially girly clothes. Lacking extra cash, I realized the only way to acquire new things would be at a steep discount. So last Monday I interviewed for a very upscale clothing store that does alterations, and of course was immediately hired. I already had over 3 years of retail experience; I’m a veteran of the sales floor. The employee discount at this fine establishment is 25%, making the clothes they have still expensive, but not as bad as it could be.

I pulled an open to close for my first day Friday, and I’m going to work today and Monday the same way. In return, they’ll give me some money that I’ll turn right back over to them for clothes that fit me properly for the first time since I was a teenager.

I’d be lying if I said I was just doing this for the clothes though. There’s a rhythm to retail, the constant rush then lull of the customers that is as familiar to me as the tide. It’s easy to bury yourself in work when things are bothering you. It’s easy not to work on the novel when I’m standing for 10 hours a day. It’s easy not to think about the men in my life, or bombings, or where I’ll end up in four months as I go through the familiar motions of selling things and accounting for the profits. All I have to do for this job is show up and go through motions that I could do in my sleep. As a part-time salesperson, I don’t have to constantly use the gears in my mind like when I’m trying to puzzle through a problem at my library job. I just have to follow the three rules of retail: show up on time, don’t steal, and keep your opinion to yourself. The rest is all spatial memory of where things belong, and the sure motion of your body keeping you upright. My co-workers are pleasant people, and I’m working for things that I need to have.

I’m also enjoying the escapism that the work provides me, which is highly ironic since I’m in graduate school to escape a life of retail. Who needs drugs or alcohol to shut the world off when I’ve got retail? In its own way, the job is just as destructive to me as substance abuse, with the reward not being a high but instead $200 black leather pants that fit, really fit, just right and are perfect for my graduation party.