Friday, June 4, 2010

I'd Rather Not Deliver Verbal Bitch Slaps Before My Coffee

My Libra ways make confrontation difficult, but there's a certain mall security guard who has been tap dancing on my nerves for a couple months. The spa I work for is in a mall, in an upscale department store, and I keep early hours of 8:00-4:00, arriving two hours prior to the mall opening. And because I underwent painful abdominal surgery during my second trimester and am now late into my third trimester, I have been parking at the nearest entrance, regardless of whether it's a mall-sanctioned "employee parking lot". Remember, pregnant women and old ladies, like Sophia from The Golden Girls, don't have to answer to the rules of conventional society. We're special. Write that down.

So anyway, if I arrive on time, that entrance is locked. However, the security guard often will have unlocked one of the 8 doors early. Otherwise, I rely on the kindness of mall walkers (old folks in their Easy Spirits working on their fitness), or a kind mall security guard, who doesn't mind walking the 100 feet to open a door for an early arrival. The mall cops rotate, so I don't see the same ones every day. There's this one guy who I've only seen a handful of times, and he won't unlock a door early. He will however, begrudgingly open a door for me and notify me and the old lady mall walkers that the doors open at 8:30. I usually smile and thank him through gritted teeth and briskly walk past. Not today, friends. Not today.

I didn't expect to be so punctual, or to see him two days in the same week, but when he met me and my venti latte at the door and delivered the same "Doors open at 8:30" message through his own set of gritted teeth, I decided enough was enough:

"Listen, I know the doors open at 8:30. You tell me that every time you see me. I'm eight months pregnant [pointing to stomach]. I work right here [pointing to store that is right in front of us]. I cannot park in the Nordstrom parking deck and walk all the way down here. Now--the other people who do...what you do [gesturing to his uniform, and resisting the urge to call him "Paul Blart"] typically leave one door unlocked, or they simply open the door without comment. I have six more weeks until I leave to deliver this baby, and I am going to continue to park here and use this entrance. If you don't want to open the door for me, then don't. But don't tell me again that these doors unlock at 8:30."

Paul Blart stared at his feet and sheepishly nodded in agreement, "Ok."

"Good," I replied tersely, before pivoting on my heel and sashaying away, tossing my hair over my shoulder. That is a move with a little dust on it. Waddling in flip flops instead of strutting in stilettos, that maneuver is considerably less impactful. As I walk away, Paul calls out, "But I'll continue to open the door. Because I have compassion."

"How nice," I retorted, not even stopping or bothering to look over my shoulder. Now that that's out of the way, I can go about my day. [Sigh.]

1 comment: