You only have the minimum amount of flair. Now Brian over there, he's got 47 pieces of flair...

It goes something like that. I keep wanting to ask people if they have a case of the Mondays, and I want to offer my customers extreme nachos and potato boats. Waitressing, I've found, is a lot like being in 206A. There's probably work to be done, but it's so much more entertaining to stand around and talk about the managers, the customers, the bartender, the greeters, and any server who isn't there at the moment. I find myself sympathizing with the one who has two kids and three jobs. We talk about child support and how she dislikes reading. I talk to the server who wants to hook up with our manager--the one who's a year younger than me and proclaimed today that he's "shit larger than our lunch crowd." I know the feeling. I had one table today, not counting when the boy came in with a coworker. His food cost more than I made today. A sad realization.
Sorry, Xtina, for not divulging more, despite the fact that I already have so many stories. I could go into the one about how the owner--you know, the GM's father who also owns the restaurant downtown and will soon be picking up his new 'Vette according to my car dealer--pulled aside each of the servers to tell them precisely how to fold the bar rag, ehm towel, and which corner the spray goes on top of the trash can. How he tells me every morning to make sure the chairs are straight and the table tents are in order. How the one touch screen in my section is messed up and results in blazin' sauce on the wings instead of the preferred Minnesota mild. How the manager insists it's my fault, even though the screen does the same for him as he voids the mistake as a "server error." (Yes, this is actually an option on the screen when you void an item.) You see, I could tell these stories, but then it makes me realize how sad my life has become. And I'm not really knocking serving; I know you do it too. But this is my only job now; it's my life. It's not a simple break from teaching, a way to let your brain relax for a few hours. My brain is comatose.
And I let me thesis sit. A golden ticket I won't let myself cash in. I partially blame my father for this one. For years everytime something bad or challenging or unfortunate happened in my life, my father, in his sage wisdom, would respond "welcome to the real world." He still does this. He would tell me this when I was having problems in school. SCHOOL! Like that's even close to the real world anyway. But I'm left with this giant fear of failing, of seeing the "real world" as something I don't want to be a part of because it's ultimately filled with disappointement and sorrow. So I do something I can't fail at. I'm a good waitress. Not too clumsy or inattentive or overattentive. I smile. Sincerely. I really don't mind it when I'm there. But it's not a career. It's not something to brag about at class reunions. It's not something that will get me insurance and a pension and sense of fulfillment. Of satisfaction.

On the flipside, I really like that I'm not forced through two novels a week, that I can peruse my shelf for any book I feel like reading. I just raced through Memoirs of a Geisha. It should be a movie in a few months, likely one of those that people just don't go see. Too much thinking involved. Now I'm returning to a Margaret Atwood. Cat's Eyes, though I've heard it's not as good as Handmaid's Tale. Eh. Just knowing there won't be a response paper to follow is enough to let me enjoy it.