When I have questions, everyone else in my department is helpful and even friendly about it--which is great because the pharmacy’s unofficial motto is a satisfied customer is a repeat customer. It’s a huge relief to know that if a customer has a problem that I can’t help them with, there are 6 other people behind me who will drop whatever they’re doing to be sure that we send the customer away satisfied.
My only serious difficulty with work so far has been the uniform.
I have my choice of wearing the company’s T-shirt, camp shirt or sweat shirt. They’re all nice quality and the colors are flattering on almost everyone.
The T-shirt is fine, but when they issued mine, they didn’t have my size. I’m not quite sure who my shirt was built for, but the size tag in the back says "UG." I’m pretty sure that translates to "Uber Ginormous." It will come in handy for those nights when I’m running through the town . . .
crying through the locks,
"Are the children in their beds?
Now it’s eight o’clock."
The camp shirt, in theory, would be great. But somehow it just doesn’t look right on me. I suspect that is because the original model that the shirt measurements were taken from was a standard issue packing box. My figure is just a skosh less square than that . . .
So I wear the sweatshirt. Which is fine because it’s a nice cut and color for me.
Near the end of my second day, I was asking Ever Patient Robin (the kind woman who was put in charge of training me) about the uniform requirements. Capri pants are allowed. That’s cool. As are shorts. And company issue ball caps. And then she mentioned that when we wear the sweatshirts we are supposed to wear a T-shirt underneath.
Now I could tell by her expression and the purposeful eye contact that she had been trying to find a way to tell me that for two days. Which I totally didn’t understand because I keep the zipper high enough that you can’t tell what, if anything, I’m wearing beneath the sweatshirt.
Truth be told, I hadn’t been wearing another layer beneath the sweatshirt because I do a lot of just-this-side-of-sprinting in my job and I personally don’t believe a red-faced, sweaty clerk projects the image the pharmacy is looking for.
It wasn’t until later when I stepped into the restroom that I understood why Ever Patient Robin took issue with my attire.
It seems that the mirror in the pharmacy restroom is differently proportioned than the mirror I use at home. Seeing myself from the waist up, rather than from the shoulders up, gave me an extra little insight as to why a T-shirt layered under the sweatshirt is a grand idea.
Evidently, in spite of the warm temperature of my environment, my nipples were being agressively friendly. I just can’t win . . .
Oh well, a satisfied customer is a repeat customer, right? Surely someone was satisfied?