... retired.

Eight years.

Non-slip shoes. Black pants. Black socks. Black v-neck t-shirt. Tank top underneath. Wouldn’t want to show cleavage “but it could help with higher tips.” (Think I’ll pass.) Ponytail. Notepad. Change purse. Scribbled specials. Pocket pager. Extra pens.

Patience.

Cheerful greeting. Recite specials. Repeat again. High chair. Napkins down. Drink order. Paper and (broken) crayons. Drinks balanced. Set down. Food order. Wait, wait, wait.

Patience.

Excuse me, miss? Check, please. Are you my server? Just a second. Are you single? Busy night? We’re in a rush. This isn’t cooked. Coffees, please. Make it decaf. Can you make change? Keep the change. Are you in school? Why are you here? This is burnt. Oops, we spilled.

Patience.

Shouting orders. Watching the clock. Hot kitchen. Shiny face. Missing food. Late food. Wrong orders. Out of food. Food allergies. Soda refills. Making sundaes. Dirty tables. Double seating. Triple seating. Server drama. Tired feet.

Patience.

What took so long? Where’s the manager? I’m friends with the owner. This isn’t what the description said. Can this be to-go? Can we pull up an extra chair? Separate checks, please. Make sure they don’t pay. Put it on the card. Do you have discounts? How late are you open? Oh, we have a birthday ...

Patience.

I almost took a picture of my apron in the trash can on Sunday night.  It looked so perfect and beautiful there. I don’t care what anyone says: it’s a freakin’ tough gig.