Things could be a whole lot worse.
In fact, now that I've written and published the first sentence to this post, it's sure to happen. Almost guaranteed, actually, since life has a funny sense of humor like that. Perhaps funny isn't quite the word for it; maybe ironic or sadistic or morbid might be a little more appropriate. Nevertheless, things could be a whole lot worse--for someone else.
For me, however, being a waitress has a few perks. I had to think long and hard to find something besides the obvious number one--tips--but in the end, I've come up with a solid five that actually serve some other purpose than just fattening up my wallet.
Let's begin with number one: Tips. (All right, you caught me: tips certainly are a bonus that can't be ignored. Now that that's out of the way, the rest of my four reasons for actually enjoying being a waitress are rather legitimate).
Number Two: My communication skills have exceeded all my prior expectations. I have always been much more comfortable with a pen (or a keyboard as the case may be in the twenty-first century) and a piece of paper. Put me in front of a bunch of strangers, regardless of their age or gender, and all the moisture from my mouth evacuates the area and stakes out in my palms--sweaty hands are not attractive--so that while I attempt to overcome my uneasiness and make eye contact, I continuously rub my hands over the front of my pants or skirt or dress or whatever I'm wearing at that moment. So, I guess that asking, "coffee or tea?" and my personal favorite, "would you prefer bacon or sausage with that french toast?" to complete strangers is actually beneficial.
Number Three: Free, and sometimes unwanted, advice. Despite the fact that all my regulars know that I've recently graduated from college with an English Writing degree, some of my favorites routinely suggest that I change tracks and go into a more stable career. Recent suggestions have been a doctor, a computer technician and, my personal favorite, a stock broker who dabbles in real estate. Considering that A) financial analysts have just lowered the nation's credit score, the stock market (sort of) plummeted the other day, and B) we have yet to dig ourselves out of our little housing market problem, I'd say that I have a much better chance to become a writer. According to the episode of Tyra Banks I watched the other day, 1 in 220 people becomes a New York Times Bestseller (she so lovingly pointed out that the list extends past the top ten or even the top hundred, but that's besides the point). Not to mention that my mathematical skills are limited to whatever can be done on my T-I 83 calculator. Nevertheless, I have to say: I quite enjoy how often my regulars try and persuade me to look into other fields so that I don't become a long-term waitress. It's sort of touching.
Number Four: Many of those who come to the diner arrive with books. Of all genres. Each time someone pops into the diner with a book, I immediately skip over with my little black book, which is filled with receipts and not numbers of past men I've dated, and a menu. I have no choice about it all, really; I face an unhealthy eagerness each time a book is propped open, front and back flap down so that I can't detect what it is. The only way to satisfy my curiosity is to, while in the midst of taking their order and asking, "coffee or tea?", sneak a peek at the book when I'm up close, or ask out right what he or she is reading. It might have been a little pathetic when I began working at that diner two months ago after graduating, but since then, I've traded plenty of lists with new authors and titles that I've never read before. For a reader and writer like myself, it's quite nice to talk literature, even when I need to return to the kitchen to put in the food order.
Number Five: I find inspiration for writing with almost every person who strolls into the diner. The other day, I noticed a couple who wore matching wedding rings; each time I passed by their table, though, I overheard the woman demanding to know why they couldn't just marry. An affair, perhaps? Were they hoping to renew their vows? Maybe the gold rings I'd spotted on their respective left hands were simply a ploy for a marriage that actually never took place. Stranger things have certainly happened. Or perhaps I've read way too many books. Whatever the case, each day I return home from the diner, I can't help but sit down at my computer and open up a brand new Word document (although I should be working on my manuscript).
So, maybe my two short months of being a waitress are not quite the average, but I have to say this: it could be a whole lot worse.
