Garage Sale, pt. 1

My first real job was in retail. I sold woman's suits. Never mind that, at age 16, I didn't own a single a suit myself. Or that I wanted to apologize for every poorly stitched jacket and frumpalicious skirt that I sold. We were providing an important product for a new generation of working women, or so my boss told me. And, dammit, those women relied on me to "professionalize" their new suits with enamel earrings and polyester scarves.

This was 1988, so my employer couldn't have been the first to welcome a "new generation." In fact, I wondered if he was trying to discourage them right out of the workforce. The store, which originally sold only men's business attire, had grudgingly ceded one small corner for the "feminine wear" that was my domain. I presided over eight racks of drab pink, teal, and grey, an island of folderol in the somber ocean of charcoal and black. No matter how empty the store remained, I wasn't allowed to pick up a book. Woozy on the fumes of the Cinnabon next door, the only way to pass the time was by straightening and re-straightening rows of shoulderpads.

This isn't a posting about gender and work attire, although it could be. It's a post about selling, and how I've never had the heart or talent for it. Remember Lloyd Dobler's "I don't want to sell anything bought or processed" speech in Say Anything? I was nearly brought to tears by it. After the retail job, I only took jobs in journalism and catering. (And, in a stint as a PR person, catering journalism.)

So why am I so excited by the prospect of our garage sale this weekend? The answer might surprise you. More on that soon. For now, fingers crossed that the weekend isn't as soggy as the forecast predicts.