Death of a Salesgirl

One month ago I quit my corporate job. I gave up my one-bedroom in Notting Hill, put my things in cardboard boxes, and actually did what I wanted to do for once in my goddamn life. I moved to Italy to take a four-month long language course.

But why Italy? Why now? I did it now because I realised that I had been sleepwalking through my life. I did it now because the alternatives were so much worse. At 26 years old, I was young but I didn’t feel it. I was, for all intents and purposes, successful but I didn’t feel it. I was alive but I didn’t feel it. I didn’t feel it at all.

In my previous job I felt so divorced from myself and everything I valued. Jokingly I would tell friends that I was engaged in “corporate clowning.” This was, of course, a way to make light of just how depressed I was. I joked about putting on my red nose and synthetic rainbow wig to place phone calls and write emails to people who absolutely did not want to hear from me. Oh, the sad, sad tears of a clown. But at what cost?

I would give and give and give to people who could turn around after an often months-long process and simply say “no deal.” I tried to be luxury and confident, yet approachable (as the brand decreed). I would make jokes to disarm prospective clients. Dress the part. Smile. Look them in the eyes. Surely then I would be likeable. And if they liked me, they would buy. They wouldn’t even know they were buying I was so personable. And yet.

An American manager once said, “maybe the reason they (the customer) didn’t buy was because they just didn’t like you.” He shrugged his shoulders over Zoom. He left the meeting. It was an off-handed remark but it played in my mind incessantly.

Of course, it was my fault if someone chose not to buy. I had to be lacking in some way. It certainly was not the company’s policy, product, price, or, even, a personal preference that informed the buyer’s decision. It was you. It was all on you.

“You’re being too nice to your leads,” another manager said. “You have to push them more. What’s holding you back?” he implored.

You see, I was not a pusher. I could never have been a pusher. It was simply not in my nature. I think that was, in turn, a part of my success at the company. A soft sell approach, an elegant process that tricked people (and myself) into believing that I was not attached to outcome.

I did not, and still do not, believe that I can force anyone to buy anything. And why on earth would I want to? I hate that word. “Force.” I wonder if all women instinctively hate that word as much as I do.

All I could control was my image. And so, I was a nice girl, an affable girl, warm, welcoming. I tried to make myself look attractive with subtle makeup and “flattering” clothing. At the cost of my self? Sure, who cares?! It was a small price to pay for the awesome commission cheque, baby. Or so the corporation would have me believe.

“What’s holding you back?” my manager asked insistently across a white marble table in my all-glass office.

At this point, I was the top performing salesperson at my location and it still wasn’t enough. One hundred percent was not enough. I think that line appeared somewhere in the company’s manifesto.

“I respect people’s boundaries,” I said. In my two and a half years at the company, this was my one minor act of resistance. I felt like I stood my ground and spoke my truth. A truth that was empathetic and accurately reflected my belief system. My one little moment of defiance, albeit delivered in an extremely feminine non-confrontational way – am I right, ladies?

“Oh,” my manager said before launching into a litany of percentages and spreadsheets.

It was a cycle of numbers, push, numbers, not good enough, “coaching”, push, change, commission, percentages, tick back to zero, rinse, repeat. There was no space for the human. No space for deep thinkers, for empathy, for art, for creativity, i.e. the things that I considered important.

The extent of my creativity was writing “happy Thursday!” in an email as opposed to “happy Monday.” I was not well. I was starving: emotionally, intellectually, spiritually, physically.

I wished that I could not give a fuck. I wished that I could discard my empathetic side. Then, I wouldn’t have taken things so personally.

People love to say, “you can’t take things personally” as if it’s as simple as that. The phrase has always baffled me. How? Please, I want to know. How do I not take things personally? Is there a WikiHow listicle for this? A YouTube tutorial?

It’s a phrase muttered with the same off-handedness as “you can’t drive on the right side in the UK” or “you can’t get plastic bags for free at the supermarket.”

Have you ever seen a Mentos dropped into a bottle of Coca-Cola? That’s what happens when you add a people-pleasing, perfectionist Virgo like myself into a big corporation. But, instead of watching the chemical reaction between the Mentos and the Coke create a brilliant soda stream, you pop the Mentos in and quickly screw the cap on the bottle as tight as possible. Watch the bottle suffer. Wince as it shakes.

I would feel beaten down, my true self withering, my self-esteem eroding, rage fizzing in my throat. However, instead of saying “fuck it,” I went in the opposite direction. I bent backwards, forwards, sideways. I pushed my true self into a corner where she was left to get all dusty and dry. She evidently wasn’t going to be successful at the company so she needed to be side-lined.

Clearly, I was not a match for the role but still I clung to the tenets of perfectionism. Who was I if I was not exceptional? If I was not overachieving? If I was not liked? If people knew just how unhappy I was?

The higher-ups were all older and made more money than me so they must have known what was right. I, on the other hand, was an inexperienced girl (with a lot of thoughts and a lot of feelings) who thrived on validation. They seemed fine. I was the one who was struggling so obviously I needed to change.

So I tried. And I gave and I gave. And I emptied the cup recklessly and without discretion. I was so accommodating to clients who were, in no uncertain terms, abusive.

Little by little, I iced up. I checked out. Returning home from work at 8 PM I felt like a shell of a woman. It was dark outside. I didn’t say a word. I didn’t see anyone. All I could muster up the energy to do was turn on the Real Housewives and warm up a piece of quiche in the microwave. Falling asleep on the couch to a screaming match between five women in Beverly Hills.

My weekends could only be described as a sort of voluntary house arrest. I didn’t fashion myself an ankle bracelet but I did eat the same two meals over and over which is kind of inmate-esque.

I felt so depleted, used and disappointed by all my interpersonal interactions during the week. I was fearful that I would be disappointed yet again over the weekend. I’d encounter a brusque stranger in a shop or a friend would make a slightly sharp comment and I would crumble.

The only person I felt capable of seeing over the weekend was Finn the Italian Greyhound. And he’s not even a person. He’s an Italian Greyhound!

He would be with me and I wouldn’t have to say a word. He communicated his needs so clearly, our interactions were so pure. A velvety boy on a velvety couch. I didn’t have to make him laugh or ask him questions. He’d never dismiss me or utter a curt remark.

Finn was a 6 kilogram furry weighted blanket for me. But I had to wonder, is this how a happy person spends their weekends? Locked up in a one-bed flat with someone else’s sighthound?

I’d have a similar thought coming home from work on a Friday at 8 PM. I’d think I’m a 26-year-old woman living in London and it’s a Friday night and this doesn’t make sense.

In the words of another sad blonde girl, “I was supposed to be having the time of my life.”¹

I developed a cough that would not go away. I didn’t even ask for any time off because it was the end of the month and I needed to sell, sell, sell if I even wanted to think about hitting my target.

It was impossible to see a doctor because I didn’t have any time. I’d wake up with a hacking cough and groan. I’d get on the Tube where all I could see were grimy fingernails gripping oily yellow poles amidst stained carpeted seats and litter.

At work in my little glass box always on display I’d furiously hit the keys on my computer to send as many emails as possible.

As a means of self-preservation I became harder and harder. Sadly, a great deal of this harshness was turned in upon myself. I would often skip lunch breaks because I’d think you’re not paid to eat lunch. Or eating lunch isn’t going to help you make any sales, keep emailing, keep grinding.

Of course, I’d come home depleted and depressed. Pop a slice of quiche in the microwave. Mute the emails. Allow the din of reality TV to wash over me.

Until I said enough. This was not a life I wanted to live.

My resignation shocked everyone which left me with a strange feeling. On the one hand, the sly part of myself thought ha! I tricked you all so well. I’m an actress, I duped you! But that selfish glee quickly faded when I realised with a great sadness that I was actress and I had duped them at the cost of my own happiness for so long.

After I quit my cough improved. I spent a bank holiday reading in a sunny Hyde Park. I actually listened to music for the first time in months. I walked down a tree-lined street in Ladbroke Grove with Alanis Morissette in my ears. Mom jeans and socks with Birkenstocks. I felt so comfortable because I didn’t need to be perceived as glamorous or attractive.

And now Italy. Italy where the sound of children playing football carries at dusk. A dog barks. Ice cubes swirl in brilliant orange orbs. Aperitivo. Italian teenagers flirt in the piazza.

There’s music and art on every corner.

Papa loves mambo.

There’s Mary. There’s Jesus. So little is certain or constant but there they are on every corner, down every alleyway. It’s something to hold on to. I get it. Here, no alleyway or section of wall is too insignificant to house something beautiful, something eternal.

And God, does it feel good to eat bread! Brushed with extra-virgin olive oil. Layers of creamy, tender mozzarella, tomatoes, grilled zucchini. Rustic edges and pillowy valleys of golden brown.

I fell in love five times yesterday.

Mama loves mambo.

My previous job had me convinced that I was unattractive and not good enough. But I do not feel that way here. A glance from a handsome stranger. A dog barks. Water flows from a mermaid’s mouth in the piazza.

1. Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar (New York: Harper & Row, 1971)