3
October 2002
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My nails are painted Not Really a Waitress red for a reason, except I couldn't really tell you what it is. Because, I am a waitress. There's no shame in that, but it's just the way it is, and it's still a little weird for me. Yesterday there was a really handsome man at one of my tables and one of the other girls said I should flirt with him, or something, and I said "A guy like that isn't going to date his waitress." And it hit me - this man will see me just as his waitress. Some girl who might be cute, but isn't really marriage material because she's probably either in school or has eschewed it all together and that's why she's here - waiting on me. (I've realized that the plot line in Office Space of the successful programmer asking out the cute girl in uniform by inquiring about what she's doing for lunch is pretty fantastical. Sort of like the hooker winning the billionaire by showing him how to drive a Lotus.) He won't know that I used to have a professional job. Or that I have two bachelor's degrees or that I'm not that dumb up top or that I'm fairly well-traveled and don't have a drug habit. I've been working so much lately that I feel disconnected from my real life. I worked almost every day last week and closed the restaurant three of those dinner shifts. After closing I went across the street to this sports bar that everyone goes to. I don't usually get drunk, mostly because I do have to drive myself home, but also because I don't want to turn into one of those people who stays out until 3 a.m. every night of the week. So I sit there and play trivia and flirt with one of the guys from the kitchen and he teases me because I always order water when I get a second beer. And we look at each other and wonder - what are you doing here doing this? But we never ask that silent question because really, there's no answer.
The notify wants to go to the beach.
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