I am a waitress.
Well, I’m also a freelance feature writer, hobbyist home renovator and hopeful double major psychology graduate – Kellan just told me that results are released on the 1st, so I’ll let you all know then with either tears of degree-related unemployment or tears of degree-related failure.
Thanks, Kellan. You’ve given me a timeline for my impending emotional breakdown.
So, as a waitress, I get a fair amount of attention. Actually, I get equal amounts dark, fair and olive attention, but you know what I mean. I wear lots of make up, try to get my customers as hammered as possible, and throw in some completely unrelated big words, and BAM. If it isn’t you, it’s the foundation/lighting/tequila.
I don’t know how to flirt. Sometimes, I genuinely get something, like maybe a severely extended mascara-plastered eyelash, stuck in my eye, and it may seem like I’m fluttering my eyelashes/crying, but I’m genuinely not doing anything on purpose.
If you make me laugh, I’ll laugh. If you make me uncomfortable, I’ll laugh. If you compliment me, I’ll double-check what my face looks like in the mirror when you’re not looking, then laugh. If you insult me, I’ll laugh. Then spit in your food.
There’s no time for that. I’m too busy trying not to drop your food. Like hell if you think I can manoeuvre a spit-walk-balance.
Anyway, #TipsForLife, or rent, so sometimes you’ve gotta just roll with the punches. You can’t tell someone you’d rather date a one-eyed chimpanzee with a learning disability and still expect your 12.5%.
So, as a waitress, every now and again, a one-eyed chimpanzee with a learning disability asks you out for drink, either alcoholic or caffeinated, and the difficulty then arises – how do you politely decline, without affecting your service?
As time went on, and as my wonderful manager, Lloyd, is not always around to overhear someone calling me beautiful and sarcastically interject with, “Oh, Iola never gets that AT ALLLL”, I’ve come up with some pretty decent approaches:
“The hot waitress is off today. Wait for her. She’ll be here tomorrow.”
“I’m not allowed to prey on my customers, sorry.”
“I’m not gay.”
If they laugh, maybe you’ll get a tip. If they don’t, well, let’s hope their table leaves soon and you get a ten-seater with rich nuns with a penchant for alcohol, but Jesus is still bae.
All this excuse-creating wouldn’t be necessary if people just let you say no, without expecting an explanation. That, or assuming that being single means being available.
I can be single, and still not want a relationship. Being single is not a green card. I’m not single because I’m struggling to find suitors.
It’s a choice.
Mine, just in case you doubt it.
Men don’t really get this, what with their predisposition for the chase and all that. Like cheetahs, with short bursts of speed.
But that’s okay, we ladies are used to trying to not to hurt your feelings by now. We’ll keep changing our sexual orientation and having imaginary boyfriends named Benjamin.
On my way to the hospital today, a gentleman asked me if I’m seeing someone, and without a moment’s thought, I looked him square in the eyes, and nodded.
“Just now. My psychiatrist.”
I found my favourite.
Worked like a charm.
Beware this V-Day.
I am a waitress.