My mother is a saleswoman. She’s good at it — she enjoys meeting new people and talking to strangers.

When I was in choir in high school, we had to sell things. Candy bars from boxes. Things in catalogues.

When I realized that I would rather die a horrible, painful death than go door-to-door selling things, I understood that I would never be a saleswoman. At least not a good one. Or a happy one. I knew that, when I was old enough to have a choice, I would only sell things over my broken, bleeding body. Which, as you can imagine, would be unpleasant for the buyers and somewhat of a logistical problem for me.