The 300 Dates Of A Recently Single Woman

Less than a year after getting promoted, I applied for a job at one of the big-name stores. They were opening a brand-new department under the same umbrella I'd been working in, same company, just a whole different league. It was the kind of place where people wore polished shoes, had laminated training manuals, and used the word "client" like we were selling Chanel, not cereal.

The drive was 45 minutes each way, minimum. But I didn't care. This was my shot at climbing the grocery store food chain.

I got there an hour early. Classic me. I didn't know exactly where to go, and the idea of being late makes my skin itch. Once I figured out which entrance I was supposed to use and who I needed to check in with, I had time to spare. I grabbed a coffee from the gas station across the street, sat in my car, and practiced not sweating through my blouse.

Exactly fifteen minutes before the interview, I walked in. The sweet spot. Early enough to look prepared, not so early that they'd roll their eyes and leave me awkwardly standing around.

They called me back to a small conference room with three people already seated, clipboard ready, pens uncapped. One was the store manager. One was the district manager. And one was the department's district lead. I recognized him immediately. He'd shadowed me once during a surprise visit a few months earlier. I wasn't sure if that helped me or hurt me.

They started with the basics. Experience, leadership, conflict resolution. I kept it professional. I always do in interviews. I don't mention my kids or my relationship status. Not because they aren't part of who I am, they absolutely are. But because I've learned how fast a room can shift when people find out you're a single mom. Some people admire it. Some people write you off. I'd rather they focus on my resume, not my carpool schedule.

Then we got to the real questions. The kind that can't be rehearsed. The kind that ask, Who are you when no one's looking?

"Tell us about a time you went above and beyond for a customer," the district lead asked.

Correction: a client. That was the language here. Not customer. Client. As if buying Windex and rotisserie chicken deserved luxury concierge service.

I took a breath. I had stories. I always have stories. But I picked the one that mattered.

"I've always believed in treating people like they matter the second they walk through the door," I said. "At my current store, we have a 10-foot rule. Greet every client within ten feet of you. Smile, say hello, offer help. It's basic. But I took it further. I didn't just greet them. I tried to remember their names. My personal goal was ten new names a day."

One of them raised their eyebrows. "That's… ambitious."

"Maybe," I shrugged. "But it worked. After a few months, I knew most of our regulars by name. And not just their names. I knew who had bad knees and couldn't walk far. I knew who had allergies. I knew who always wanted paper instead of plastic. I knew who needed an extra moment to count out cash. And they knew me."

I could tell I had their attention, so I leaned in a little more.

"I remember one client in particular," I continued. "She walked in and looked like the fluorescent lights were attacking her. She was rubbing her temples. I asked if she needed help, and she said, almost apologetically, that she had developed intense sensitivity to fragrances. Said even certain aisles made her dizzy."

I paused, remembering.

"I told her, 'Same boat. My daughter has the same issue.' And instead of just pointing her to the soap aisle, I walked with her. I showed her the products we used at home. Unscented shampoo. Fragrance-free conditioner that didn't leave her scalp burning. The real hypoallergenic stuff, not the kind with flowers on the label pretending to be gentle."

They were nodding now, following.

"Then she asked about cleaning products. I told her I clean with vinegar. She looked at me like I'd just recommended goat's blood and incense. So I walked her over to the vinegar aisle. Explained the difference between regular vinegar and cleaning vinegar. Told her how to use it, what to mix with it, what not to mix with it. We stood there for fifteen minutes talking about dilutions and ratios."

There was a pause.

"You walked her to the grocery aisle?" the store manager asked.

"Yeah," I said, without hesitation. "Because that's where the help was. She didn't need someone to recite an aisle number. She needed someone who took her seriously."

Another pause. Pens scribbled. Eye contact shifted.

I wanted them to understand something.

"I don't care whose department someone's in. I don't care if they're holding a basket or pushing a cart or just wandering around looking lost. If they're in my store, they're mine. I'll help them. Period."

It felt quiet in the room after that. Not awkward, just heavy. Like something had landed.

Then the district manager flipped a page on his clipboard and asked about theft prevention. I answered that too. But the moment had passed. That was the story that stuck.

And maybe they didn't say it right away, but I could tell it mattered.

They didn't expect someone to say "vinegar" in a corporate interview. They didn't expect me to talk about sensory sensitivity or remember customers by name. But I wasn't there to say what they expected. I was there to show them what I did, every shift, every aisle, every day.

And in case you're wondering?

Yeah. I got the job.