Enjoy your fries with that.

My current profession isn't impressive; it is not glamorous, and it is not always fun--it's not even really my profession. I like to think I haven't discovered that yet, simply because I'd like to be so passionate about what I do that it's contagious, and I am not that passionate about setting plates of food in front of hungry people. Waitressing can often suck the energy out of me, it sucks the good mood from my bones, and it sure sucks up my time. I've come home tonight, more exhausted, more beat down, and more melancholy than I have in a while. Plates went out wrong, fries were cold, and my status as a woman seemingly demoted to that of a servant. But it happens. It's all part of the business, just as screw-ups and mishaps and bruised pride are all a part of life. And amidst all the shortcomings of the night I find myself softly declaring that I'm grateful for my waitressing jobs, because it's not all bad. Not by a long shot. 

I could sit here and write to you a list of conditions that those dining out should meet, as well as a list of condemnable atrocities I have witnessed. But I've resolved to make this less about what my job lacks and more about what it possesses, because as I sat at table 123, running sanitizer over my menus and filling salt shakers, I thought of what this year of serving in a restaurant has offered me. 

                     Everyday I get to meet a plethora of new people. I get to interact with, share a smile with, and assist those who sit at my tables and it may sound silly, but I like that. I like meeting new people, even if I am merely a means to an end: food. There is a responsibility attached to the knowledge that I can influence a couple's date night, or a family's celebration, and don't we all like to feel a little responsibility? It makes us feel important.

                      It actually is fairly lucrative. Despite the sometimes inconceivable sum that a misguided bill-payer will pass off as a tip, I've made great money.  There are great tips, and there are terrible tips, and each often come along with great stories, but most tips are simply average. But average, when all accumulated, can certainly pay the bills. And on the occasions when I've taken the time to figure out an hourly wage from my wad of tips, I learn that--for an hourly, part-time job--I'm not doing half bad.

                     Stories. Boy, do I have stories. Perhaps this can coincide with meeting new people, but I always come away from a serving shift with at least one story to tell. So many types of people enter eating establishments that it's impossible not to encounter a couple nut jobs, a few entitled snobs, a hilarious comedian, or even a kindred spirit. The possibilities are endless, and therefore so are the stories and the memories. 

                     I've learned that more people are genuinely kind and friendly than aren't, and most do not understand the extra stresses they cause when they ask for obscene an amount of change, or when they order multiple drinks instead of one.  I like to think that I've learned the value of patience not only in a time-oriented sense, but in a personality and people kind of sense as well. In any job you must deal with the personalities of your co-workers, but only in the restaurant business must you deal with a personality and an appetite simultaneously, and it is not always pretty. 

In hindsight, I've had worse days. I've had days where my best lines, my fastest pace, and my every effort didn't turn out to be enough. But I've also had days where my jokes provoked a laugh, my poise and speed knocked a couple extra bucks my way,  my efforts resulted in conversation, and I was ultimately rewarded because of my hard work.  More often than not, I've dealt with a mixture of each scenario during a shift. The ebb and flow of these opposites constantly reminds me of the fleetingness of all emotions, of all circumstances, and of all occurrences. The sting of that bad tip will go away, just as the all money you made during a shift will inevitably slip through your hands, too. The lady who barked at you to refill her drink will walk out the front door in half an hour never to be seen by you again, and that glass you broke in your haste will be replaced by an identical one tomorrow.

So, to the passive aggressive woman who left me a short novel on the back her receipt this evening: Thank you. Thank you for explaining the reasoning behind your poor tip rather than simply leaving an unacceptable percentage and walking out (even if I could have fixed all your complaints had you simply voiced them as they occurred).  And to the four teenage gentlemen who pleasantly surprised me with their wit, kind manners, and humble generosity, thank you for reminding me that not all are as fault-finding as my dear pen-scratching lady a few tables over. 

Ultimately, each day is a coin toss for who will sit at my tables, who I will rub shoulders with, and how well we'll get along.  Some will be good, some will be bad, and each have the potential to be famously memorable or infamously memorable. Sometimes I will earn my tip, other times it will be a flat rate, handed to me regardless of my performance.  But always, it will be my attitude that sustains me, and I will seek to make it a good one.