Waiting

I work at a fine dining establishment. I will confess that waiting tables feels much different at thirty than it did at twenty. I don't remember this feeling of humility... and sometimes seething anger. I find this change interesting. I attribute it to the comparison I now have between the respect of a professional job and the lack of it in a service industry job. It is interesting moving from a job where I lectured and controlled the behavior of those around me to a job where I control nothing and deliver the requests of others. I'm sure this is good for my character.

A few weeks ago, I had a nine top who came in to celebrate a birthday. They milled around everywhere, wanted to order at different times, and went out to the parking lot to smoke at random. I went back into the kitchen at one point, and homeboy from the party was back there with the cooks trying to chat up Chef. They were all in their late twenties, and the ladies kept talking about their benevolence in each of their charities.

One of them asked me if it took a really long time to make the margaritas because it was taking me a long time to get them out to the table. Um, I'm opening three bottles of wine for your stupid friends and delivering tapas, and this isn't even my only table right now, so shut it, vapid blonde fatty. But wait, things get better.

Later, I'm dropping off salads to the table and Trendy-single-girl compliments me on my wedding ring. Her friend, Whiskey-drinking-brunette, slurs that Trendy has a ring just like it. Trendy holds it up, and indeed, she does. I'm a little surprised by such an impressive diamond

ring worn just for the heck, but whatever, I'm middle class. But wait, it gets better. Whiskey astutely notes that Trendy's diamond is bigger than mine. (This is fine. I have a great ring. I feel no need to compete.) However, I'm starting to feel that Whiskey is not my favorite person. Whiskey points out that Trendy isn't married so that means that the waitress (that's me) is "better." Oh, but wait. Then Whiskey announces to everyone that Trendy's boobs are bigger than mine, so she's better. Um. (It is true. Trendy's boobs are bigger.) With horrified face, I moved on down the line with the Rioja. What do you say to that?