It Happened One Night

One night, being last night. At the Club. Belittled. Ignored. Treated like a waitress. Wait a minute. I am a waitress. But not really. Not at all. Even if I were President of the United States, my job would not define me. When am I going to get this through my head? The greatest thing we have in life is love, right? The ability to love, the power of love. Love, love, love. It's all we need. The Beatles said so. And all of that starts with us loving ourselves. I pretty much, other than when trying on bathing suits, love myself. I walk through life, knowing that His love is all I have, trying to live a life in communion with God to be full of love for myself and others. I am confident that God provides all I ever need and has promised me good things and my future looks amazing. I get excited just thinking about it.

All of a sudden, here come the Young Members Committee AKA the people who are members of this club who are my age, know people I know, shop where I shop, eat where I eat, weekend where I weekend. Okay, so I don't really "weekend" much any more, but I used to. I am not at all interested in their conversation of who all was at dinner last night at The Tree House or about their weekend in Cashiers or Kiawah. But there they are. Ten of them. Which brings the total number of people who I alone am serving to over 20. That means I am seriously breaking a sweat. I am more than hopping. I am taking orders, putting complicated orders in a computer system, balancing cocktails, delivering food, busing tables and taking dishes back to the dish pit, getting ketchup, extra sauces, steak knives, desserts, coffee, creamer, the list goes on. I don't stop. I never stand still. Then Buffy, actually I think her name was Blair, calls me over, leans over and touches my name tag to look at it, calls me by my name and asks for some water. It was done so in a very condescending manner. And what do I do? I condescend right back. UGH! Why do I do that? I give her the smug, clinched teeth look that says, "Don't touch me. I will lick your soup spoon." That was so mean of me. I was just so mean right back. I didn't say a word, but my eyes, and clenched teeth said it all.

The room was busy, I was the only waitress, they all had their cocktails and taking orders and member numbers for 10 people and plugging all that in and getting those out in a timely manner is not an easy task. And I know people get thirsty and I like water too. Just ask nicely. And don't touch me. Then I fly back to my station and I am out of water glasses. I run full sprint to the hallway, grab a rack of glassware, fly back to my station and fill glasses for 10, taking four immediately to Blair and her Lily Pulitzer clad friends and she has the nerve to say, "I think we all would like some", looking at the rest of the table, eyebrows raised. Excuse me? I wanted to say that the SIX remaining glasses would not fit in my APRON and the last time I BALANCED THEM ON MY HEAD it didn't work out so well. But I didn't. But that made me mad as fire.  Ugh. Mad as fire, I tell ya. Are you just looking for ways to make me feel less than? Do you think I am a total slacker idiot? I am sorry your Spanx are so tight that you have to be short with me, but I am bringing water for the table but I can only carry 4-6 at a time and I was considering your thirst and thought that my timely manner of deliverance for your immediate need would be rewarded with a smile. Excuuuuusse me. I was going to write more about how their conversation turned to making fun of prostitutes and how embarrassed they were with Atlanta's prostitution problem and how it made me mad. And then how I immediately realized, as I bused tables and listened to their conversation, that my judging them is really no different. Lack of love, compassion and understanding is simply that, no matter who you are. I now am still so worked up I can't even think about it. "Lord, help me. Love my thighs in a bathing suit and that lady with the porcelain veneers. Thank you."