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And after taking three separate pregnancy tests today only to get the exact same result each time, one thing is crystal clear.
I haven’t been throwing up because my stomach can’t handle Thai takeout anymore.
Wiggling my coat back on in my seat is followed by me grabbing my clutch, my phone, my keys and hustling towards the front doors of Arthur’s, anxious not to be stuck in the dropping temperatures for too long.
While my black, floor-length coat successfully shields my entire frame from the frigid November temperatures, the off-the-shoulders black cocktail dress I’m squeezed into barely keeps my nipples from cutting glass.
Hey, it’s sophisticated and sexy.
Says “I’m a boss bitch” and “I look better at doing it than you”.
Which isn’t really the point of these dinners; however, after having some high-class shade thrown my direction regarding my “inability” to dress up due to what I do for a living, I have no choice but to prove myself.
Play the game.
Ugh.
Fucking politics.
The polite acknowledging of Anja, the sweet and easy on the eyes weekend hostess, occurs quickly as I pass by, spotting the table I’m to be joining, immediately.
Daniel – of course – is first to spot my presence and rises to his feet to warmly greet me. “There’s the life of the party.” He pulls out my chair on a professional sounding chortle. “I was getting so worried that I almost sent out a search party.”
Code for he’s so fucking bored he’s almost gouged his own eye out with a cocktail stick.
“Sorry I’m late.” The removal of my coat off my shoulders is assisted by him. “Traffic was a nightmare.” Daniel respectfully drapes my jacket along the back of my chair. “You’d think after living here so long people wouldn’t panic when the weather says ‘chance’ of a snowstorm.”
“Or pretend that they weren’t the ones begging for this shit in the middle of August during a heat wave,” Dr. Cait Cooke, the big-toothed, long haired, brunette that’s in the running for Chief Medical Officer next year, comments from her place that’s across from mine. “Every year the same people who bitch about the heat are the same ones who whine the snow came too early.”
“Truth,” Crue Vann, the dark-haired, scruffy faced, ER nurse who goes to the driving range with Daniel on random occasions, pipes up from his chair on the other side of my ex.
I settle into my seat the same time I state, “I wish I would’ve known this is where you all wanted to go for dinner sooner.” They changed locations four times in fifty-six minutes. “I would have had us sit with my boyfriend.”
“Oh, he’s dining here with colleagues as well?” Craig Oldenburg, head of Assembly Required’s accounting department inquires, position the opposite of Crue. “What a coincidence.”
“No,” undoing my cloth napkin occurs during my explanation, “he works here.”
Silent appall shifts around the table to no surprise.
Yeah.
This happens more often than I care to admit.
While I’m not ashamed whatsoever that the love of my life waits tables, many others find it embarrassing on my behalf and are quick to ask what he “really” wants to do or why hasn’t he “done more” with his life. The ugly truth I’ve learned over these past few months is that so many people look down on those who work in service jobs, assuming they couldn’t cut it doing something else or aren’t intelligent enough or are merely so desperate that they’re willing to do anything for a few bucks. Funny thing is, if they put their own assumptions in the recycle bin and simply ask, they’d know how wrong they were.
Like Gladys who not only makes more money running the bar than she did as an early childhood educator but typically gets to spend the days with her young daughter, working mostly when she’s headed to sleep or already there.
Or Abel who graduated with a BA in art and works here to help save for his tattoo shop he’s planning to open with his brothers next summer. He likes the hours of sleeping late, doodling when he first wakes up, and getting the time to work with his siblings who have less flexible hours.
And of course, you have Tate who loves the fact he never brings the stress of the job home.
Does he have shitty nights?
Who doesn’t?
But his are easy to brush off with a hot shower and cold beer. He doesn’t have to give extra time or thought to someone who was a dick to him because he may or may not ever see them again unlike all of us who have patients or families, we see regularly for various reasons that we have to figure out how to work with or for or keep connected to.
In ways, I think its them who pity us.
