Those people

Dear Rude Woman:

I understand that sometimes in life unanticipated things happen. I understand by your agonized tone that you are frustrated and, in not knowing where to turn, you were passed to a person or two before hitting my line. And ultimately, when you did get transferred to my desk, and because I work for a company that provides a product, and because you are our customer, you think it is within your rights to ply me with your bad behavior. You think that through telephone osmosis, I deserve your anger and hostility.

I don’t.

I’m just the person that picked up the phone that literally wants to help you. Snapping at me, berating me, treating me like I am beneath you because I have this job at this desk and have the ability to assist you? What was your mother thinking when she let you leave the house, and go out into the real world with that attitude?

In the blink of an eye and the lashing of your tongue, you have gone from “annoyed individual” to “loathsome human being.” It takes everything in my soul to muster up the desire not to reach through the phone and throttle you. I try to ply my voice with the appropriate measure of patience, but your verbal assault fractures my vaguely rose-tinted veneer, and a hot steamy lava of annoyance threatens to seep through the cracks.

Within a mere 30 seconds of experiencing your cutting words and rude demeanor, in my mind’s eye you have officially moved from “reasonable customer” to the pile I call, “those people.” And honey, just so we’re clear: Nobody likes to be thought of as one of “those people.” Because they’re HORRIBLE.

As anybody can tell you, “those people”

… spank their kids in public and smoke with all the car windows rolled up, despite the toddler in the car seat behind them;
… complain that the food is terrible AND that the portions are too small, besides;
… ride their bikes without a bike helmet;
…always cut in line at the grocery; and
…give back-handed compliments like, “You aren’t as fat as you usually are.”

(As a side note, my mind has dressed you in a tattered, hot pink polyester bathrobe with curlers adorning your fried-pewter hair, both of which you wear everywhere. ALWAYS.)

Rude woman, I am angry at you. I am angry that you dripped your bad attitude all over my otherwise delightful day. But soon my personal embarrassment has slid from anger to sorrow. Was I rude back? I think I may have been. I know, in my heart of hearts, I wanted to rip the curlers form your head and throw you into an ice-cold lake so your hot head could cool off. And if you somehow heard those thoughts in that tiny pea-sized brain of yours? Well… I am sorry.

But moreover, I’m sorry you were rude to someone—all the someones here at my work—who tried to assist you, and didn’t measure up to your standards. I do promise we’ll try harder for the next person.