There’s nothing wrong with working at Bob Evans. Just like there’s nothing wrong with admitting you dropped out of college. My mother told me that the day I called crying because I was failing out of school. My tears dried up, packed my dorm room up, and got a job waiting tables.
Now I can’t figure out why the need to shy away from confessing I didn’t make it. Some people just aren’t cut out for higher education and waitressing at a family restaurant is no less important than the lawyer or the stockbroker. Everyone has a place in this world, it’s society that places a certain level of importance or worth on things.
Waiting tables is a commendable job really. Back breaking, thankless, anonymous work. You’re Sally with the greasy apron who makes eight dollars an hour, works afternoons and nights alternating, and puts in fifty plus hours a week. And because you serve people forget you’ve got two kids, rent, and blisters on your feet after your double. You’re a person still and your service matters. I matter.
I mean something, degree or no. That restaurant uniform and name badge don’t say a thing about who I am anymore then walking across a stage and holding a piece a paper does.
“You’re important! Own that truth.”
I tell myself that every morning when I wake up and get ready for work. Uniform on, smile on, out the door. There is worth in lifting trays and dealing with surly customers. I’ll wear my smile and take their order because my job still has importance whether they treat me well or not.
There’s nothing wrong with admitting I dropped out of college and wait tables. I’m still valuable, important to society, no matter what my job is.
Anybody who has done your job know it is a challenge. To do it well, a server must be incredibly organized and focused. Keeping mentally alert along with all the physical challenges, (and working different shifts to boot!), means that you are no ordinary person. I know. I’ve been there. No one with an sense should ever but be impressed with a good server.
I have a lot of respect for servers/waitresses. I’m not one. This was just a story, one with a point, but still a story.
You should never let your job define who you are… That job could go away over night…
Very true. We like categories though, don’t we? Our job is a category that defines.
I’d love to see this character developed more…and I’d love for her to have a love that sweeps her off her feet, too. (As if you’re taking requests, lol). 🙂
This non story posing as a story. It wouldn’t leave me alone, but was stingy when it came time to write. I’m sure I could make it fuller, but my brain refuses to cooperate.
Maybe it just needs to be mulled over, and steep like a tea…if it’s meant to be more, it’ll come to you eventually. 🙂
Mulled over and steep like tea. Good analogy and a good assessment. Maybe it will. I’m not sure my mind or muse will cooperate though.
I waited tables for years. It paid for 2 years of school for me and after I lived on those tips. I was good at it, too. I worked at several restaurants, including a classic NY diner. You had to be fast and sharp because those are the toughest customers in the world. Truck drivers at breakfast are the best tippers.
And I commend you for doing it! 🙂