My new serving job is amazing.
I can go to work, and not worry about “corporate standards” as I had to as a Pizza Slut. I’m quite certain that I (who very rarely wore my nametag) could provide you with better service than any of those ninnies who insisted on wearing their nametags because it was a “standard”. But enough about that.
I can go to work, and not worry about an inspector showing up and ruining my shift. Not because an inspector is not likely to show up at my new place of business, but because I am no longer in a position of power, so if there is something amiss, it’s not really my problem. Is it weird that I revel in my lack of power?
I go to work, and have never left with less money than I expected to make on any given shift. In fact, I have been pleasantly surprised by people’s generosity. I will absolutely brag about the fact that I received not one, but two $20 tips from tables who’s bills were less than $90. Yay me.
My longest shift is now not more that seven hours long, (unless I choose to stay longer for one of the many teen girls who lack work ethic), and my managers do not poopoo my opinions, but listen to them wholeheartedly.
That being said, there was one issue that I thought would bug the crap out of me.
The oldest server I work with on a regular basis is 22.
Imagine me, upbeat(most of the time) Sparkle, seeming to have like, OMG, no energy whatsoever when surrounded by my coworkers. No, I have not jumped on the depression bandwagon; it’s just that such younglings are brimming with such life and promise, and talk of prom, that sometimes I feel like an old dried-up spinster. There is one thing that makes working with such innocents bearable: they are actually all nice.
There is also an upside to having such coworkers: the Glee-like drama is interesting to observe, indeed. Now, instead of watching such scenes from the comfort of my own living room, I now get to play the part of the older, much wiser (ha) woman these youth might one day look up to or come to for advice. I would actually advise them NOT to do that.
Anyhoo, since high school is long behind me, I had forgotten what stock teenage girls put in their looks, and their weight, and their weekends. Yep, I’ll work for you so you can go out with your fake ID with your senior boyfriend on Friday night because I have a $600 electric bill to pay. Sure, I’ll stay late for you so you can go find a pair of perfect shoes to go with your $600 prom dress daddy paid for, because I have to buy groceries for my beloveds.
It’s weird, because I thought I was shallow. At least I have pretty people to look at when I go to work.
Sparklebumpsthebookwhore 