The Level

When it comes to waiting on restaurant patrons, I think you either come to the table with it (no pun intended) or you begin to reach it after some time. It's this invisible line that, unless you have the patience of a kindergarten teacher, you eventually will cross over. It's the level. You no longer show up to every table, starry-eyed and smiling cheek to cheek. You understand that waiting tables isn't your career and that if this restaurant doesn't work out, you can walk right out and right back into the one next door. Your heart begins to harden as child after child drops crushed cheerios and squishes mayo packets onto the floor, into carpets, and in between bench seat cushions. Your faith in humanity falters as matured adults show less class than their cheerio crushing, mayo packed smushing offspring. A little crack appears your outer shell, threatening to splinter, and your eyes no longer retain their spark.

Ladies and gentlemen, I have reached this level.