Coming back home was hard enough.  I knew I wasn't going to find a job right away, so I was out commiserating with an old friend at the bar when someone asked me for a cigarette.

 "I'll trade you for a job" I joked.

She said "Come down  to the store and fill out an application".

She was the assistant manager at a major retailer in a local mall. You are familiar with this store, there are a lot of semi naked mannequins and pink walls.  Let's just call it Smictoria's Vecret. 

I figured what the hell. I could work part time while I figured out why I came back to the States.  How hard could selling underwear be?

Um. I was so deluded. 

It wasn't just the panty tables.  Please people, there are armies of poorly paid women who have to organize those things every day.  Ask for assistance rather than digging to China on the table or the bins, because we have voodoo dolls in the back that we stab repeatedly when you come in and mess those things up.

It wasn't about underwear returns.  WHO THE HELL RETURNS UNDERWEAR?  I know you wore them and when you stand behind the counter expecting your money back, the reason why I'm cringing is because I don't want to reach my hand into your bag and retrieve the offending item.  That's why we typically ask for the receipt and then wait until you walk out of the store to scrape the bag into the trash with one of those padded hangers.

It wasn't about the boobs.  I don't mind boobs.  I have a set of my own and understand why women want their bras to be comfortable.  But most women don't have a clue about what fits them and no amount of help, cajoling, advice, measuring, or quick switches of size would dissuade some of them.  Four boobs isn't a good look.  Boobs down to your navel isn't either.  I tried my best to make sure it didn't happen on my watch.

It wasn't even about the men who would come in and make the same damn joke, every time they came in. 

"How about you model this for me?"

Seriously. As a  Smictoria's Vecret employee, I've heard this 1.45 to the 10 power times and it never gets old. We will laugh sweetly, cross our arms in front of our black blazers, and excuse ourselves to the back room, only to grab the male version of our voodoo doll and rip its head off.  You are not funny and never will be.  Hopefully you will keep your mouth shut and just plunk down the credit card so I can up my sales average.  

For me, my breaking point was when I was doing a bra fitting in a dressing room.  My client was a little eccentric, babbling to me about this and that.  She was also very stacked and having trouble finding a bra that she was satisfied with.  I do not remember what led us into the topic of nipples, but it was not uncommon fodder for conversation in the Smictoria's Vecret realm.  After explaining the merits of lining and padding, I gave her a few more test bras to try on.   I wasn't listening to what she was saying, but remember her finishing a sentence with "...and then he did this!!!!"

It was like a slow motion movie scene.  Her arms reaching out, hands extended, forefinger and thumbs coming together.  

She tweaked my nipples.

She.

Tweaked.

My.

Nipples.

There is nothing in the Smictoria's Vecret handbook that covers being molested in the dressing room.  I quickly grabbed some discarded bras and ran out of there into the back room.   Crumpled onto the floor, I couldn't decide whether it was funny or if I was totally skeeved out.  My manager thought I was having a seizure.

I quit not long after that.  I wish I could say I had gotten out of retail at the point but it took one more job to really screw up my brain.