There are many jobs we do in life that require turning off your feelings. In my case, the service industry is a very dangerous place to FEEL because not everyone is going to like you. My favourite mantra = You're not chocolate, not everyone is going to like you.
As a server, people make assumptions about you from the moment you come up to their table. Too often, that translates to, "You're a server, so get me a water and as many free things as I want." Like extra napkins, more straws, limes, lemons, crackers, bread sticks, diet Coke, water, more water, fuck it - get me a lake, more ketchup, more mayonnaise, more, more MORE!! Sometimes, people have had a bad day and you just need to be their punching bag for a while. I try not to take it personally.
In return, I try to let people know how much they mean to me and, if I've spoken harshly in frustration, I try to make sure my friends and family know that it wasn't me talking. It was my hormones, or my hunger, or that other SHERLA that I keep locked away in the part of my brain that says DANGER - DO NOT OPEN. The one that likes the idea of kicking small children or driving a car (thump, thump) over the heads of slow drivers and other irritating fucks.
My sister told me long ago that she makes a choice to like her life no matter what it throws her way. If she finds herself getting angry about having to do dishes, she just starts to tell herself how great it is to be washing dishes. The water is nice and hot, the soap smells great, the dishes are all getting squeaky clean. I wish I were more like my sister. I definitely try to like things that I think I hate.
Having said that, I fucking hate my hair. I hate my body. I hate getting old. I hate people. I hate the colour of my skin. I hate my clothes. I hate that the person I am, regardless of how hard I've worked to make myself this way, is never good enough because of the way I look.
When I went shopping yesterday at the second hand store (one of many habits I'm proud of), I found some great shoes and two dresses that I thought looked pretty damn good on me. I had some reservations about my weight (currently 188 lbs) and the size of my monstrous breasts (38 DDD - and I don't mean Victoria's Secret version of those letters) and the fact that my legs are pale and covered in varicose veins. The dress was short and cute, a nice bright yellow, and was very... hip. Paired with a super cute pair of purple, suede, heels - I was going to turn some heads for sure.
I went out for lunch with some of my favourite people. I had lots of money in my pocket. Had a great locally brewed beer with a locally sourced lunch of lentils, yams, beets and zucchini. I was making plans to receive an award for being an exceptional server at an exceptional restaurant with exceptional staff. Everything was sooooo above level seven. Probably a 9 on the Good Feels Scale.
Then I went to the mall for a hair cut. I was running out of time; had to be in Waterloo by 6 p.m. Walked in, got my hair washed, sat down in front of the mirror with my wet head and thought, "Who in the fuck is THAT looking back at me?" I went from level 9 to level 2. That's a very dangerous drop in levels. I'm not diagnosed as manic-depressive or anything. I just know that a good, steady level 6 is much better than a 7 level drop any day.
I'm so old!!! I'm so used to seeing my face with a great app filter that I could not recognize my own face in the salon. I told her to just make me look good. And, she did her best. She was going for Victoria Beckham, but I ended up with a Soccer Mom bob at best. Gramma-Trying-Too-Hard-To-Look-Youthful is an even better description. I'm only 44. Is this what 44 should look like?She spent far too long trying to make it look better. I had very little time to find the modern version of a girdle so that I wouldn't have panty lines in my new dress. Ended up squeezing into a large pair of Spanx. Torturous process! I got the morph suit to my knees and had to stop for air. I know they're supposed to be tight, but honest to Betsy! How would I ever get this thing off if I had to pee?
I'll tell you how. There's a hole in the crotch. A big, genitalia-shaped hole so, if you're wearing a dress, you just lift your skirt and start peeing. This is a very, very uncomfortable sensation that still makes me feel dirty and not in a good way.
I quickly changed into my new, bright yellow dress and looked in the mirror hoping to see the same youthful-yet-chubby girl I had imagined earlier in the day. I don't know where she went, but the woman in the mirror was clearly an idiot. Flabby arms, pasty skin, that ridiculous haircut, and a boxy figure looked back at me. I didn't even consider myself a person. Just a yellow, shapeless shape with ugly purple shoes.
The afternoon continued at a steady level 2. Gas tank was in the red, but I assumed a gas station would be on every corner between London and Waterloo. This is not the case. In fact, some small towns will just hang a sign on their gas tanks that say "Out of Gas" even though you've already driven 16 km out of your way to get there. Other gas stations listed on Google Maps are actually big holes in the ground with industrial fences around the place where a gas station once was.
I arrived with my Level Monitor, personal photographer and favourite daughter at 6:35 - about 35 minutes after the cocktails were being served. We grabbed some bread and cheese and a beer, which were all very good. But, dairy makes me full of farts. Spanx leave no room for a belly full of farts, I can tell you that.My general manager, who is also a delightful human and winner of GM of the Year 2017, said many nice things about my work ethic and positive attitude. I was able to ignore the fact that I felt like an overripe, tropical fruit and just enjoyed my time in the limelight. I did not trip in my heels. I did not pee on myself. I took lots of photos. And I'm a good person. I have a pyramid-shaped glass that says so.
