Hi, my name is Krista and I’ll be your waitress tonight

Once upon a time, not all that long ago, I busted my ass for tips.  The kind that people leave under a plate or on a tip tray after a few beers and a good meal.  It started in college when I decided that I was too cool  to live in a dorm (a decision that I sometimes question now).  To afford rent and a car payment, I’d have to get a job.  So, I waltzed into the popular bar in town and put in an application.  For a little more than a year, I did homework or crosswords during the slow dinner hour, then rolled up my sleeves and pushed my way through the shoulder-to-shoulder crowds to serve beers and shots to early-20-somethings until 2AM.  Most days I was back up at 8 the next morning headed to class.  Typing that now, 12 years later, makes me tired; but at the time, it was fun.  I was 19 and in a bar.  I thought I was cool. 

All through college, I waitressed and bartended (albeit in more family freindly establishments) to make ends meet.  When I got my first “I went to school for this” job, I happily gave up the nighttime gig.  And racked up the credit cards.  Folks, the reality of working and paying bills is SO not what it’s cracked up to be.

Finally, once my credit card balance was out of control, I started waiting tables and bartending again at night.  I’d work all day from 8 to 5, in the professional PR job.  Then I’d throw on the uniform 3 nights a week and smile as people decided between the chicken parm and the chicken marsala.  I’d bite my tongue when they complained about the selection on the menu, try hard not to yell back when the boys in the kitchen had their panties in a bunch and try not fumble my words when I had to wait on the CEO of my “day-job” company.  I put just about every tip I earned towards my credit cards. 

And in a year, I was debt free.  And then Craig proposed.  So I stayed on for another year to help pay for the wedding.  Then we decided to build a house.  And I kept working.  I felt like I would be there forever until I got pregnant, almost threw up during a shift and decided enough was enough. 

But as tired as I was during those nights, as grumpy as I got when people sat at their table for HOURS after they were done with their meals, I don’t regret it at all.  I think spending that time serving up mixed drinks and steaks taught me more than anything I learned in college. 

• I learned that you don’t make the waitress come back five times to ask if you’re ready to order, then get pissed if she’s not at your side the second you make your choice.
• I learned how to carry three glasses in one hand and a plate of spaghetti and a bread basket in the other.  (What? That takes skill!)
• I learned what the phrases “86′d”, “in the weeds” and “on the fly” meant and how to use them. 
• I learned to read facial expressions to know when “it’s fine” meant “actually, my four-year-old cooks better than this.”
• I learned that if people got to know you personally, they were more understanding about long wait times, more interesting to talk to and left bigger tips.   
• I learned to smile and say something nice when it was the last thing I wanted to do.
• I learned that people treated waitress Krista very differently than the Krista they chatted with a fundraisers.  And I learned that I didn’t have time for those people and didn’t want to be that person. 
• I learned that if you want something, you work for it.

While my daughter can do anything she wants when she grows up.  She can go to the moon, she can work on cars, she can argue in front of judge or jury.  I hope that somewhere along the way she has the opportunity to work in a restaurant, yell at the cooks in the kitchen, roll her eyes at the annoying customers and bond with the rest of the waitstaff over leftover food and an after-shift drink.