Cancer girls know surviving the physical is only part of the journey. The bitch has the ability, after sapping physical strength, to take a stab at the psyche as well. She steals your badass and replaces it with fear.
Physical strength returns bit by tiny bit. I took a job to focus on physical return. I searched for something brainless meant to enliven my strength. A spa seemed the perfect outlet-a place where previously I found calm sustenance might provide healing. Bottom line—they’d let me work part-time, work my way up the
strength ladder and it smells good.
Wafting eucalyptus aside, I forgot how much fun customer service could be. It’s been a while since I was seventeen. While others rail at client rudeness, I generally laugh and think how awful it must be to wear grumpy pants to a spa. Kinda defeats the purpose, non?
Last week, a sourpuss of the sullen sort comes in for a massage. Poor thing, it could have been a great day. The spa is beautiful. Our best therapist is on the schedule. Treatment rooms are gorgeous. And you can jump in the whirlpool after.
I escort Sourpuss to the locker room, point out the amenities and show her to a locker, pre-stocked with a luscious robe and slippers.
She: “I don’t want this locker. I want a bigger one.”
Me: “Oh I am sorry but those lockers are reserved for our members.”
Sourpuss flits over to open each of the lockers. “There’s no member here now. I’ll take this one.” My sweetest smile covers the name I christen her. I move her luscious robe and slippers to the locker of her choosing.
She: “This slipper is way too big. I have a very small foot. I need a smaller one.”
Me: “I can do that for you. I’ll be right back.” I retrieve a smaller size more suitable for her delicate hoof.
She: “I don’t like this robe. It’s very thick and heavy. Too heavy for my small frame. Do you have a lighter one?”
Me: “The only lighter one I have is a 4X—it will be way too big.”
She: “I’ll take that one. Go get that one.” I return, faithful Labrador, and hand her a robe ten times too large for her tiny frame. I stand, waiting for the other robe—the one too heavy for her petite shoulders to carry about. She does not hand it over.
She waves a hand in my direction, “You may go.”
Either cancer was unable to steal my sense of humor or strength of spirit is on the rise. I laugh in her face, swivel and exit. And tell everyone I work with.
A bulb alights above my head—has healing hit the next level? Is it indeed time to leave the job that buoyed me back into the working world and find a big girl job again? Suggestions ladies?
The Duchess Diaries 