Its Friday night. I’m sitting at home after a hastily-prepared but tasty meal. My children are clambering over my legs and putting questionable things into my hair. My feet ache- not from standing in one place all day but from walking back and forth throughout the store, balancing on one foot while a customer regales me with stories, and constantly getting up and down to answer the ding of the door.
Its been a busy week, as usual. I’ve changed your watch batteries, sized your watch bands. I’ve drawn sketches for you- sketches of rings and pendants made from your mother’s diamonds and your old high school class ring. I’ve listened to you tell me about how your hands swell in the morning, how your chain snags your hair in back, and how your watch gives you a callous right there. I’ve replaced necklace clasps with magnetic clasps for your arthritic hands. I’ve shut my office door, listened to short story podcasts, and created magical things that will show up in the cases within the next few weeks.
I’ve flipped through catalogs of parts, listing elaborate numbers for tiny and simple items like jump rings and birthstones. I’ve signed for the boxes, bantering with the shipping carriers. I’ve talked to the newspaper ad guys, the billboard ad lady, the radio ad lady. I’ve turned most of them down, because our budget is just stretched right now. But I’ve done it, hopefully, kindly enough that they don’t lose heart at their job.
I’ve smiled. I’ve laughed at your jokes, made commiserating noises at your misfortunes. I’ve negotiated. I’ve called potential employees on the phone while reading resumés.
But mostly, I’ve talked. And talked. And talked some more. I’m sick of the sound of my own voice. I’ve talked about chain link styles and management practices and the color of crystal opal vs boulder opal. I’ve talked about job requirements and my kids and your kids and those tiny little diamonds in your wedding ring and why they will cost more to set than they are worth in dollar value. I’ve explained rhodium plating and silver alloy and gold tarnish (it can happen!) and the rising price of gold and why platinum makes a bad wedding band and how could we possibly charge more now for a watch battery than we did five years ago.
And now I sit and stare at a blank blog page on my computer screen. I have no words left. They are all gone, and so is my brain at this point in time. I read a children’s book to my three year old just now and I didn’t even catch onto the plot until the last page. Thankfully, she had it figured out.
The words that were allotted to me for the week have gone home in the ears of my dear and lovely customers. Some customers are maybe not so dear, but most I adore. And now those customers will have reassurance about their particular piece of jewelry, their place in life. I hope that I have touched lives in a positive way, because that is why we choose retail when we choose it for a career.
All of my words are gone. I’m sorry that I don’t have much to write about tonight. This being retail, I will get up tomorrow and go back into the store, hopefully with a new stash of friendly and helpful and maybe even wise words. I’ll keep some strong words in reserve in case anyone gets cheeky or pushy. And since its a shorter day, I’ll have more words leftover for my children and my wonderful husband when I come home in the afternoon. And we’ll sit on the beach with a popsicle and I’ll think about my second fledgling novel or my daughter’s looming haircut and I’ll restore my word reserve.
Monday will come around, and there will be more watch batteries and ring sizings and broken necklaces and possible engagements. I’ll smile and nod and listen and laugh. And again, I’ll talk.
And maybe when I’m done with it all, I’ll have a few words left over for you guys, for this blog page.
Until then, thank you for reading. And thank you for understanding. I have exactly four words left now: Good night. God bless.
