everything about me screams “waitress”. my short, often unpolished fingernails, the too-short tendrils of hair that wiggle their way out of my ponytail and into my face, the name tag proudly displaying my status as SEAFOOD EXPERT, down to the roommate i never see. it’s all there.

i’ve been waiting tables… excuse me, let’s use the politically correct term: “serving”, for almost a year now and i think i now have the act pretty well in hand. it’s about juggling, really. getting used to whatever environment your table puts you in. from the wine loft, where we’re always the local, go-to bar, (“hi y’all, how are ya? i’m shannon. what can i get for ya? i would recommend a bottle of menage a trois red. oh no, honey, i’m from new orleans. i’m just working in baton rouge for awhile…”) all the way to red lobster, where everything is corporate, (“hi! welcome to red lobster. my name is shannon and i promise to take excellent care of you tonight. i just wanna take a moment to point out our fresh fish menu. right at the top you’ll find…) it’s etched into my every day. i even unload my dishwasher like a waitress: three plates in one hand, four glasses in the other, pushing the door closed with the ball of my foot.

in fact, it would be safe to say that i actually know more servers than i do interns, retailers, and campus employees combined. i think dana (my wonderful roommate, who has lovingly put all our clean dishes away this evening) has probably forgotten that i do, in fact, live with her, so rarely am i at home. i work long hours when i can, because not only am i a part time server, but a full time opera student, sister, daughter, and friend. there are boys to be flirted with, arias to learn, brothers to take care of, books to be read, and friends to be loved. by the time i get off work, i usually drive straight home and promptly proceed to lock myself in my bedroom and be anti-social, because i just need a break. a break from the fake smiles, conversations, and piles of wasted food. but not tonight.

tonight i hurried to my petite, electric blue pt cruiser and slid, quite ungracefully, into the front seat. untying my bright blue apron and tossing it to the side (only pausing for enough time to snag an even $10 out of the front pocket) i drove to the movie theatre across the street and bought myself one, solitary ticket to Up In The Air, george clooney’s new flick. utterly alone, still in my work uniform, the smell of cheesy biscuits and snow crab legs emanating from my every pore, i was the only, literally ONLY, person in the 10:05 movie.

and i loved every minute of it.

something about the way i sat in the dead center seat  of the dead center row, unaccompanied, surrounded by dozens of empty chairs was comforting. the thing about being a server is that you’re never allowed to be real. you can’t just walk up to your table and say something to the effect of:

“just because the kitchen decided to give YOUR baked potato extra salt does NOT give you the right to treat me like crap. i don’t need you or your 5% tip. go fuck yourselves.”

you have to be polite. you have to smile. you have to calmly walk to the back, take a deep breath, hand them their check, and thank them, ever-so-patiently, for choosing red lobster, blah blah blah. am i rambling? i think i’m rambling.

anyway. there was something about seeing my first movie alone that made me feel so… grounded, real, alive. the girl at the ticket counter, one eyebrow cocked, asked me, “just one?” to which i replied “yes, just one.” an exhilarating feeling, really, of being independent and successful, even if it was just going to a movie.

for the record, you should go see Up In The Air. it was worth it.