Sunday brunch: the excursion everyone looks forward to all week. Bottomless mimosas, French toast, overpriced coffee, and me stuck behind the bar.
While everyone else enjoys a leisurely meal, I have a 21-top in my section, a full bar in front of me, and a printer that won’t stop spitting out more drink tickets. Someone needs a fresh coffee; someone else needs more butter. Drinks need making, food is waiting to be picked up and at least one other table has been ready to order for longer than I’d like to tell you.
All the while, I’m actively trying to suppress the thoughts of everything waiting for me when I get home: a criminal law exam to study for, an incomplete thesis that desperately needs attention, and about a trillion other responsibilities just to exist. All of this seemed to be completely manageable when I agreed to my work schedule earlier this semester.
For the foreseeable future, though, none of this matters. I’m not a student. I’m not a researcher, an intern, a writer, or a soon-to-be alum trying to figure out where she will be living this time next year. I’m your waitress.
And sometimes, this stark contrast gives me whiplash. Welcome to what I have affectionately decided to call the waitressing paradox.
I spend eight hours running around a full restaurant, bouncing between large parties and bar guests, while simultaneously making every drink for the other 11 servers on the floor. Then I go home, shower the restaurant smell off, open my laptop, and start cramming for my exams. The next morning, I get dressed and walk to class.
There’s something so strange about how invisible the rest of my life becomes the second I clock in. To the person sitting at my bar, I’m their waitress. They don’t know what I’m passionate about. They don’t know what graduate programs I’m applying to. They don’t know about my research, internships, classes, or what I want to do with my life.
To be fair, why would they?
The problem isn’t that my customers don’t know these things; it’s when you meet someone who seems to believe they already know enough about you simply because you are the person taking their order.
I’ve heard every variation of the joke that, as a psychology major working in a restaurant, I must already be preparing for my future career. So funny! But somewhere along the way, a job I originally took because I needed quick money became an incredibly important part of my life.
I met people I never would have met inside of my university bubble. My coworkers, some double my age, come from different backgrounds, careers, and goals. People I probably never would have crossed paths with otherwise became people I genuinely look forward to seeing.
And then there are my regulars.
Some of my favorite bar guests are the veterans who will sit with me for hours, talking about their late wives, vacations, careers, families, and the “glory days” that become a little more detailed every time the story is told. I know their drinks. I know their orders. I know which ones want to talk and which ones just want a meal and some peace.
When I take a day off, I wonder if they came in. If someone hasn’t shown up in a while, I worry. When they finally come in again, I make sure they know how happy I am to see them. For about twenty hours a week, I get the fabulous opportunity to make the restaurant feel familiar to someone.
There are days when this feels like a gift. There are also those days when someone asks me for another side of ranch while I have six drink tickets to be made, three tables trying to flag me down, homework waiting for me, and an exam hiding around the corner. These are the moments I have to actively try not to lock myself in the walk-in refrigerator. Both can be true!
I’m working towards a future I deeply care about. I want to attend graduate school. I want to continue doing research. I have spent years building a professional and academic life that I am incredibly proud of.
And yet, some of the people who have taught me the most about people are the ones sitting at my bar. Some of the friendships I value most came from clocking into the job I took expecting nothing but a paycheck. Some of my most entertaining stories started during shifts I desperately wanted to call out of.
Maybe this is why I get so frustrated when people look down on serving, and maybe that’s why I need to stop defending myself when they do. You shouldn’t need to know what I do after I take off my apron to decide that I’m intelligent, capable, or worthy of your respect. I’ve had to remind myself of this too.
I’m proud of who I am when I leave the restaurant. I’m also proud of who I’ve become inside of it. I can work a packed bar. I can manage a full section and a service well. I can have someone’s drink ready before they even sit down. I can make a regular feel special. I can talk to almost anyone. I can solve a problem without anyone knowing it exists, and I can carry a frankly unfathomable number of plates at once. Then, I can go home, code, study, and write for hours. Maybe these two versions of myself were never as different as I thought.
And yes, I absolutely still want to quit. Just not yet.