The 300 Dates Of A Recently Single Woman

Every job has one. The coworker who ruins birthdays, potlucks, and your will to live. At our store, her name wasn't Karen, it was worse. Let's call her Petty.

Not because she was mildly annoying. Because she was a one-woman Mean Girls reboot in clearance heels, clipboard in hand, and the emotional range of a sour candy.

She was a department lead who treated her little section of the store like it was her personal dictatorship. She controlled that space with an iron fist and a laminated checklist. She was the kind of woman who thrived on hierarchy, who saw rank as a reason to step on others, not lift them up. And she hated me. Truly, viscerally, for reasons I never fully understood, though I have my theories.

It all started when her boyfriend, not her husband, let's be clear, because that distinction mattered to her more than his actual loyalty, asked me for help. He was polite. I showed him where something was, smiled, did my job. He thanked me and mentioned my name. That was it.

But apparently, that counted as flirting.

She hated me because her boyfriend remembered my name. That's it. That's all it took. Maybe it reminded her of who he wished she was. Maybe I just smiled better. Or maybe, and this is my personal theory, she was just mad that someone else could wear khakis without looking like disappointment incarnate.

From that day forward, I was enemy number one. And not just in a cold-shoulder way. No, she went out of her way to make my life hell. She blocked the conveyor belt so I couldn't use it. She moved my department supplies and pretended not to know where they were. She'd whisper to coworkers as I walked by and laugh just loud enough that I'd hear. It was like high school never ended for her, only now, she had a name tag and misplaced authority.

She used to insult me in front of other employees, but she always did it in a way that could be explained away as a joke. "Oh, lighten up," she'd say when I called her out. "Don't be so sensitive." She knew how to twist the knife and make it look like she was just being "honest."

It happened during the sale. The one people would still be talking about years later like it was Black Friday meets Oprah's Favorite Things.

Shampoo, conditioner, deodorant, all marked down to prices so low it felt like we were legally stealing them. My family came in with three carts and a plan. We weren't just shopping. We were stocking pantries, loading up care bags, donating what we could. That day wasn't about hoarding. It was about helping.

But of course, Petty saw us.

And like clockwork, she had something to say.

She didn't whisper. She didn't even bother with fake politeness. She turned to another employee, rolled her eyes, and sneered just loud enough for everyone to hear:

"White trash always knows how to sniff out a sale."

I froze. The words hit like a slap, but worse, because they weren't even meant for me. They were meant for all of us. For my mom, pushing a cart of discounted shampoo with pride. For my little sister, who was still clutching her coupon book like it was gospel.

I saw my sister's smile falter. Her face fell. She looked down at our overflowing cart like it was something shameful.

And that's when Clifford stepped in.

Clifford, my cousin. Dairy Lead. Blue apron, clipboard in hand, witness to the entire thing.

He didn't raise his voice. He didn't curse. He just turned to Petty and said, loud and clear:

"If you're going to insult her family, remember you're insulting mine, too."

Petty didn't respond. Just stared. Like she hadn't expected anyone to push back.

Clifford didn't wait for a reaction. He just walked past her, cool as ever, and added over his shoulder:

"Besides… saving money's not a crime."

He didn't just defend us. He buried her.

And just like that, the moment snapped. My mom lifted her chin. My sister squared her shoulders. We rolled our three carts to the front like the gods had declared this day ours.

Because we weren't white trash. We were smart. We were kind. We were generous. And the only thing Petty ever gave away for free was her bitterness.

She policed my breaks, reported me for imaginary timecard violations, accused me of stealing customers. If I was near her area, she'd find a reason to yell. And if I avoided her? That became proof I wasn't a "team player."

But the worst, the absolute worst, was the day I found one of my part-time employees crying in the breakroom.

She was barely out of high school. Kind, hard-working, the kind of girl who stayed late without being asked. She split her hours between my department and Petty's. And one week, I accidentally scheduled her into overtime.

Petty approved the schedule. Saw the hours. Said nothing.

Then, when the girl showed up for work? Petty ambushed her. Screamed at her in the stockroom. Called her irresponsible. Lazy. A burden. Told her she'd ruined the payroll budget. She reduced that sweet girl to tears.

I looked her in the eye, handed her a tissue, and said, "You're not crying alone today."

She reduced that sweet girl to tears.The kind of crying where your shoulders shake and you don't even wipe your face because you're trying to disappear.

Then I stood up and said, "We're going upstairs. You don't have to be scared of her anymore." Because if no one else had her back? I did.

We walked into management's office and told them everything. The screaming. The name-calling. The intimidation. I didn't sugarcoat a thing.

Petty got written up. Forced to apologize.

She did it with her arms crossed and her jaw clenched so tight it looked like she was chewing glass. I swear her soul tried to leave her body when she muttered, "Sorry."

It should've been enough to get her fired.

It wasn't.

But it knocked her off her plastic throne for five minutes, and sometimes, five minutes of justice is enough to keep you going.

The funny thing is, I wasn't alone. Everyone had a Petty story. People who tried to get along with her would eventually break. I heard whispers of arguments, tears, confrontations behind the warehouse doors. She united the store through mutual loathing. A common enemy in clearance heels. A shared migraine with a clipboard.

She wasn't just toxic. She was a storm in a breakroom. A living, breathing morale hazard.

And yet… I still did my job. I still showed up. I still found joy in helping customers, organizing displays, running promotions, making people smile.

Because no matter how cruel she was, no matter how hard she tried to dim my light, I refused to give her the satisfaction of watching me quit.

Petty taught me something valuable.

Some people will hate you for shining. Not because you hurt them. Not because you wronged them. But because your joy reminds them of everything they aren't.

Petty hated my light.So I made it brighter.

You don't have to dim yourself for people who can't stand your glow.

Shine harder. Burn hotter. And if they melt?That's not your fault.