disappointment

I was only spanked once as a child, so the story goes. In my memory, it was not at all. My parents had a different way of dealing with punishment and, whether or not they intended it, the phrase, "I am very disappointed in you" was the worst possible sentencing. I remember crying for hours in my room, repeating this phrase in my head. I guess I was a people pleaser from an early age.

*******

Today, I worked two shifts, the first beginning at 6am. The shift before had ended at 11pm. There are a few benefits to this arrangement we call "clopining". First, the mountains are gorgeous in a sunrise, and I have the privilege of seeing that. And two, I have tables from the night before in my breakfast section and get to develop a brief sense of "regulars." Today I had a large table of 8 people return from before, and although I vaguely remember them being a little difficult, I was happy to see their faces again. I recalled one woman in particular was full of smiles and had sang loudly, off-key to the piano player and I liked her immensely. The rest had an odd vibe and tipped erratically. This morning, they trickled in over a 30 minute period and ordered all different arrangements of our buffet. With 6 other tables, they were a bit of a blur, but I tried to make conversation as I could. One man asked a common question when I returned to take he and his wife's drink order,

"Oh, where in Texas are you from?"

"Austin."

"Did you got to UT?" The conversation was progressing predictably.

"Yes, I did my undergraduate there."

"Are you getting ready for graduate school now?"

"I finished grad school a couple of years ago."

"What are you going to do with your degree?"

My common joke: "You're looking at it!"

Then before I could say "just kidding" (although I'm not really kidding) or explain myself further, he laid down,

"Ah, as a parent, I'd be very disappointed."

WHAM! A huge blunt object hit me upside the head. That's what it felt like anyway. The emotional reaction was so deep, and so old, and so overwhelming, I lost my sense of balance in the room. I'd like to think if I had not been so tired, if I had a different hormonal state, if I weren't feeling overwhelmed by being busy and a series of other stars were in alignment, my reaction would have been quick, witty, and maybe even biting. I relive the options now:

"Well, it was between this and stripping, but as I am sure you know, it's not always wisest to follow the money."

"Hum... at least my parents aren't narcissists, so I don't have to worry about that."

"You'd be disappointed that your child is happy in her life?"

Instead what came out was, "That's not a very nice thing to say to anyone. Did you say you wanted coffee?"

The table immediately chastised him and I think he tried to make up for it by asking more about my degree. My head was humming *wha wha wahhhmm" and I couldn't reenter the conversation.

"What did you get your degree in?"

"Did you want coffee?"

"What was your degree in?"

"Do you want some coffee, sir?"

"Yes, what did you study?"

"Nutritional anthropology. I am writing a paper for the anthro of wine journal and trying to get into the business. I'll be right back with your drinks, sir."

Then, as anyone who knows me well might predict, I started crying.

And I couldn't stop, as the restaurant just got busier and busier.

Lots of other jobs probably have the option of taking a break, even a bathroom break, when you need it. This one does not. People need their refills and their plates cleared and their checks run, often all at the same time. And they need it done by a predictable person with the single emotion of happy servitude. That is the work, 40 hours a week. I tried to pull it together, using a technique called "brain spotting," standing in the server station looking for a visual location to help be contain my emotions, but that phrase would repeat itself over and over again my head and I was literally swarmed in heat and the need for emotive relief. All my tables looked concerned when I got near them and later in the bathroom, I saw why. Make-up gone, red eyes, blotchy skin: scary and uncontainable. I am not unfamiliar with this predicament, but I do so hate the embarrassment.

When he asked to pay, I told him in a shaky voice he would need to remind me what they had. He came to the computer and when I handed him a $14 check, he threw down and $20 and walked away. I think he felt bad. Honestly, I hope he did. But there's no way we'd ever have the full conversation I'd like with him, about why I chose the path I'm on, about how I don't regret a single step of it, and about how one of the things I fear the most is the disappointment from my parents. I know they support me, and I know they understand that, in everything I do, I honestly try my best to try my best.

But I think I am part of that lost generation that doesn't know what we are supposed to work towards. There's no corporate loyalty. I don't want a suburban home. And I honestly don't know what I want to DO yet. I am miserable in an office and I need a job that challenges me in every aspect: social, physical, intellectual and maybe like today, emotional. It doesn't have to give me societal accolades; I got over that in grad school. Restaurant work has always done these other things for me and, as long as I can make ends meet, I'm happy to do it. When someone tells me I am good waitress, I am filled with genuine pride because it's something I am truly invested in. I don't try to live off the dole and I don't ever dread going to my job. I know I don't have to defend myself, but one can't help but give in to a little internal ego fit every now and then.