Last week, I was sent over to the fashion closet to help the style interns on a busy day. They had just finished shooting a story on the perfect pair of denim for every body (curvy, boyish, apple shaped, etc.), and now the remains of the project were stuffed in bags that popped out of every corner in the room.
Over 500 pairs of jeans had been surveyed in order to find the perfect few that would appear in the magazine, so you can imagine how much material I’m talking about here. I, along with the other intern I work with, was informed that all these jeans had to be separated by brand and then put in separate piles. After this we would send the jeans back to the PR companies that sent them to us.
Thus began my day of physical labor – if you think carrying huge piles of denim around in your arms all day isn’t heavy and tiring, you’re wrong – and I didn’t sit down until about 5 pm. I realized that these fashion girls were doing this every day as I sat placidly in front of my computer typing and web surfing! This got me to thinking about some of the jobs that require you to stand/lift/push/pull things all day long, and I decided to ask my friends with labor-intensive jobs for some funny stories.
This summer, thanks to the totally sh*tty economy, one of my friends is working at a water park in New Jersey where she has to lift little children on and off a miniature waterslide all day long. The other day, a three year old peed on her in mid-air, and then the mother (standing behind the gate) proceeded to yell at my friend for making her daughter cry. Not to mention the fact that these water park pools and rides are probably filled with pee anyways, since little kids think its okay to let it all out wherever and whenever they please. Awesome.
Bus Boy (or girl)
Because restaurants are cutting down on their staff – again, thanks to our fabulous financial situation – it has become more and more competitive to land a job as a hostess or waitress if you don’t already have a lot of experience. So, my friend was forced to take a job as a bus boy (or a food-runner), and has already dropped two plates (on or around the diners) while making her rounds throughout the busy seafood joint on the Jersey Shore that she now calls home. At least she’s getting muscles?
The fact that one of my friends is working as a waxer at a small spa has nothing to do with the economy; she actually wants to give people eyebrow and bikini and lip waxes (and she’s forced to learn how to as part of the hairstyling program that she’s enrolled in). Now I, for one, cannot imagine dabbing boiling hot wax on and around people’s private parts (or close to their eyes or mouth, since we need these to live and I am very clumsy), and I would honestly rather be a zookeeper than give someone a Brazilian. For my friend, however, things haven’t been too bad, except for one small incident when she had just ripped a nice wad of wax from a girl’s B-line and a freak reflex made the girl on the table kick her leg straight into my friend’s boob.
With these horrible stories in mind, I’d gladly tote around a few more pairs of jeans. Maybe I could even score a pair for free.