Every day, at 5:45am, I get up and go to work in an airport.Most of the time, it's tolerable.
Lately, I've been working seven days a week, as the Kid's dad is neither paying child support nor contributing towards her daycare expenses, and suffice it to say, I'm a little irritable.
Most people try to be nice. Some people are just assholes. Some people glare at me when they ask where the end of the line is and I say, "Straight down, and to the right". Like "where's the end of the line" was a bright question.
If I have to repeat myself three times, I am going to talk to you like you're the dumbest person on the earth on the third attempt. See my open hand pointing straight ahead? Now, see the people all standing one in front of the other, looking in this direction and waiting? We call that a line. The first person standing there looking at me is not the end. The end of the line would be where you keep walking until you run out of people facing me. Now that we've been here for seven minutes discussing the ramifications of "Straight down and to the right", 30 people trying to walk in the door with luggage and wheelchairs have come to a grinding halt behind you and it's going to be my toes that get run over when they try to show their frustration by huffing and pushing past me, not yours. If you'd like me to take off my shoe and show you the bruises, I'd be more than happy to.
You start barking at me as soon as you walk up to me, and the face is closed.
If the word "f*****g" comes out of your mouth as soon as you approach me, as in "This f*****g line", or "f*****g airport", or "the f*****g guy outside told me to wait here", the face is closed. I cannot see you. Do your best to move along.
Do not stick your finger in my chest.
Do not start yelling at me because I'm the seventh person you've talked to. I take no responsibility for the first six.
If you knew how little I actually earned to try and make your visit to the airport as painless as possible, or how much tequila I have to drink to get your voices out of my head when I get home on a Sunday, my 28th day in a row, you might, just might, take a deep breath, smile, and say, "Perhaps you could help me?".
My two-year old says "please" and "thank you". Try it. You'll be amazed at the results.
I'm going to go spend some time with my kid and try to get all of your voices and faces out of my head.
You start barking at me as soon as you walk up to me, and the face is closed.
If the word "f*****g" comes out of your mouth as soon as you approach me, as in "This f*****g line", or "f*****g airport", or "the f*****g guy outside told me to wait here", the face is closed. I cannot see you. Do your best to move along. Do not stick your finger in my chest.
Do not start yelling at me because I'm the seventh person you've talked to. I take no responsibility for the first six.
If you knew how little I actually earned to try and make your visit to the airport as painless as possible, or how much tequila I have to drink to get your voices out of my head when I get home on a Sunday, my 28th day in a row, you might, just might, take a deep breath, smile, and say, "Perhaps you could help me?".
My two-year old says "please" and "thank you". Try it. You'll be amazed at the results.
I'm going to go spend some time with my kid and try to get all of your voices and faces out of my head.
1 comment:
((((Mary))))
I *always* politely ask for help!
Remember, you're doing it all for the kid. One day, she'll be a grown-up, dealing with her own issues and she'll say, "Thanks Mom!"
That will come after the, "I hate you" stage, though, so be prepared.
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