Sex Shop Blues

There's no better way to get over a heartbreak than acknowledging straight up that you're acting like a teenager.

A few months ago, when I first got the job here at the Art of Loving, I distinctly remember thinking, "boy, I sure am glad I have a boyfriend, or this job could be seriously depressing." And in fact, one of my first days here, Aimee said to me, "this job is great, but it can be hell if you're heartbroken." Well, fast-forward to a few weeks ago, and I find myself very suddenly and unexpectedly without said boyfriend, and very certainly and certifiably heartbroken. I suppose that's what I get for being so self-assured.

I'm finding more and more, though, that the sort of unpleasantness I expected in being freshly wounded on the job isn't actually the case. It's quite amusing, if nothing else. I mean sure, there are the customers who come in holding hands and looking for the perfect massage oil to compliment their perfect love, who sort of make me want to run screaming to the heath. (Not that you should stop coming in, happy couples! You are probably good for me, in some sort of unpleasant, masochistic way.) But ten years from now, I'm sure this is a period of my life that I will look back on with a sort of self-deprecating amusement.

Another thing that people said to me when I first got this job was, "well, I'm sure that'll give you a lot to write about." I thought so too, but for the first little while at least, I didn't find myself particularly inspired. I've recently come to realize though, that my current predicament is far too hilarious not to turn into a novel. I've decided, however, that given the utter, life-ending depth of my despair, it would be best (and less embarrassing) to portray myself as a teenager. A teenager who works in a sex shop and sporadically bursts into tears when forced to sell her former beau's favourite brand of lubricant to complete strangers. As the protagonist in a novel aimed at young adults. I'm sure it'll go flying off the shelves.