I was blessed to work at a Wellness, Tanning and Boutique shop today. It’s a job I absolutely look forward to each and every opportunity.
Off go the yoga pants, on goes something a little more classy for the Boutique crowd. Make up, hair, nails. I feel like a real woman for the few hours I get to man the counter, pretending to be someone who knows more than how to wipe snotty noses and pack allergy free lunches.
Well, today a man of stature came into the shop, and I was fully prepared to answer anything he needed to know about age defying skin tonic or which lotion his wife would like best (seriously, people ask these questions, as if I can look at him and imagine what his wife back home looks and smells like. Retail. I tell ya).
Anyways, he works at the funeral home just down the road, so he was dressed in a smart business suit. I assumed he was there to purchase a gift, turns out he wanted to tan for the first time.
I intended to appear knowledgeable, so I told him everything I knew about tanning, hoping he wouldn’t notice my pale, borderline albino appearing skin, clear evidence I hadn’t tanned since spring six months ago… and then only twice…
We debated the merits of seven minutes verses ten. We contemplated the hot bed or the cooler one. And then, very wisely and maturely I said, “Why don’t you try bed number two, and if it gets too hot just kill it.” I even made the hand gesture that says kill it dead with a straight face, because I was taking the matter quite seriously.
He looked at me long and hard for a second and then just gave in, as if I weren’t capable of extending this conversation a second further.
I showed him to his room and went back to man my post at the register, not understanding his change in demeanor.
And then it hit me.
I actually told the guy that works at the funeral home to kill it. Yeah, I meant shut the machine off by hitting the little stop button. Not actually kill the machine, or anything or anyone for that matter, but his pause let me know he either thought I was a poor comedian trying to make a wise crack or an idiot, or an awful combination of both.
Clearly I’m an idiot.
When the mortification set in, I basically died of embarrassment right there on the spot. But only on the inside. Cuz I’m still alive to write this post, as the funeral home worker can attest…
I really should be fired.