Secret shoppers are a valuable tool for business owners who want an objective opinion on their staff’s service skills (Amy Scanlin writes all about how fitness centers can make the most of secret shoppers in FM’s February issue). But I’ve always had a more romantic view of these covert crusaders. I think of secret shopping as a kind of sweet, sweet justice.
The terrible customer service I’ve received in my lifetime has been impressive in its consistency. I’ve been treated like the invisible woman, a buzzing mosquito and a close-talker with a wasting disease. And, in those moments when I’m being ignored, tolerated or avoided, I daydream about being a secret shopper. What could be better than knowing that smug salesperson will get the shock of his life when my Super Secret Shopper Report ends up on his boss’ desk? Imagine the satisfaction of knowing my report would make him as uncomfortable as he made me when I asked if he could please ask the red-faced man on Treadmill 14 to honor his 20-minute time limit, or why the water fountain doesn’t work!
Being a secret shopper must be like being a superhero. You’re incognito, flying under the radar, doing good, busting the bad guys, making them pay. POW! ZAP! BING! I get all tingly just thinking about it.
If I were a secret shopper, I’d bring justice to all members who suffer bored front desk staffers, overbearing personal trainers and annoying managers who wear disinfectant spray bottles in a holster like they’re heading for a wild west showdown. My brief, yet brutal secret shopper reports would end the domineering step instructor’s reign! Knock the bull-horn-abusing lifeguard from his perch! Erase the night manager’s annoyed smirk when members gently point out the deadly mold flourishing in the showers!
Who knows? I might give this secret shopper thing a try. I wonder if I can wear a cape…
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