Just had one of the longest nights of my life at the restaurant.  Not worst night, not busiest night, not deadest night, not most terrible, just long.  The time between 4pm-6pm felt like five hundred years.  When it was 7:06 I felt like the universe was playing some sort of cruel joke on all of us. I kept wondering why it wasn’t getting dark outside yet. Sometimes I think me waitressing makes complete sense.  It’s natural, I’m good at it, I like people, I like the fact that I bring people heavy plates of pasta and meat covered in cheese, and they are happy, seemingly, for the moment. (Can’t really get deeper than that.)  Then other times I completely spaz out and think I might not be able to handle another solitary moment of the torture of serving people food. Of having to apologize for being out of something as if it were my home I was entertaining these goodnatured guests, and Yes I’m sorry we’re out of lemonade, yes we have no blender tonight, no we have no root beer, we’re out of gnocci, straws and bread.   Sometimes I’m way overenthusiastic; other times I can barely keep my disgusted Muppet face from showing as I walk away.  Bad tippers,  people who leave baby wipes on the table, people who think it’s ok for their children to be rude, or perhaps they don’t realize…at the end of the night it’s all good.  Add it to my character.

she's not even holding the tray right