Last night was the culmination of my “career” as your friendly neighborhood server.
I will no longer dress in a white, button-down, collared shirt and tie. I will no longer polish silverware. I will no longer ask if ice water or bottled is preferred. I will no longer watch as everyone around me sips their wonderful red wine or sangria. Fuck sangria.
Part of me can’t believe that, in all likelihood, I will never work in another restaurant again. The service industry has been my life since freshman year. That’s eight years of pulling espresso. That’s eight years of steaming soy milk. That’s eight years of clearing plates.
On my way to the restaurant yesterday, I was (as expected) overcome with a sense of nostalgia. I knew it would hit at some point — I used to love this job. It’s always a great social outlet, and the nights usually end with free alcohol. Somewhere along the line though, I fell out of love. I found myself stuck in a job that made me increasingly bitter.
I can’t waste any more time waiting tables — it keeps me from making progress. I need to focus on what I want to do, the type of person I want to be. So that the next time my plane is landing at LAX, I am not reminding myself that I was supposed to be a magazine columnist at age 26, or that I was supposed to have a great little loft apartment in Manhattan and a job at Amnesty International. It all feels like mere dreams, but it can be real, if I just leave behind my going-nowhere job and do.
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