Although I’ve more or less adjusted to my erratic hours at my job over the last year—working until 1 a.m. Saturday nights, then going back at 9:30 the next morning, working at 5 p.m. the next day, you get the picture—one aspect I simply can’t adjust to is the inevitable bizarre eating schedule that goes with it.
Not only do I now eat dinner anywhere from 4 p.m. to midnight, I also routinely work the last half of my shift with my stomach growling and my head aching because I haven’t eaten anything in over six hours. Yep, waitresses are supposed to be robots. No eating during your shift. Of course, there are the lucky days when our manager lets us share some food or eat some soup, but normally, if you’re paying attention, you’ll see servers sneaking pieces of bread or begging the cooks for some extra fries or chips. My go to is pickles. Why, I don’t know, but it helps the hunger pains more. I also enjoy the amused look Luis or Antonio get when I plead, “Can I get some pickles, por favor, corazon?” (If I'm lucky, they're in a good mood, and say, "Anything for you!" and hand me a plate piled with pickles. If I'm not so lucky, well, clearly I don't get my pickles.)
The other night was a particularly painful one for me—not only was I effing starving, but for almost two hours, I only had one table. Maybe you’re thinking, that’s a perfect time to eat at work! Why wouldn’t you be able to eat right then? You’re standing right next to a kitchen!
Is that what you’re thinking? Stop it. You’re wrong. Go get a job waiting tables, because I hate you, you optimistic human who gets to eat when you’re hungry. No one wants to see a server eating food, talking to her friends, walking in the bathroom, or participating in life in any way other than smiling maniacally as she delivers your food and hands you beers.
That’s why I’m here. To serve you. I have no needs of my own. To think otherwise is just ridiculous.
However, please keep in mind, 70 percent of the time that I’m handing you your burgers, your wings, your chicken sandwiches, and GOD HELP ME, your banana cake, I’m growling under my breath, because:
I’M FUCKING HUNGRY!
If you’ve met me, you most likely know about one of my more endearing traits: That is, when I’m hungry, stay away from me, or give me some food. I am an asshole when I’m hungry. It’s quite charming, I know. It’s my mom’s fault. She used to act like a lunatic when she was hungry. Seriously. A lunatic. And now I fight desperately not to do the same.
The point is, since I’m hungry about half the time I’m waiting tables, you should also be tipping me for my incredible acting skills. Because I am acting my ass off, smiling at you while you boss me around with your mouth full.
This is how I really feel:
It's my day off. I think I'm going to eat lunch like a regular human now.