I am a waitress. The politically correct term for this is "server" but I prefer the former; it makes me think of high-waisted skirts, long white socks, and on occasion, roller blades. Unlike the 1950s version, the 21st-century waitress wears a tight T-shirt with her restaurant's name on it, almost too short shorts and ankle boots. My outfit is different but my purpose is the same: I'm here to make money.
No one works at a restaurant because they like people. If they did like people, they would quickly learn to dislike them after a few customers. Servers serve because they get something from it. Not any sort of satisfying sense that they're helping the community or feeding poor, hungry college kids. At the end of the night they get cold, hard cash.
Before this spring I had never known the feeling of a wad of bills. I'd seen this elusive stack of bills in my father's wallet and in my mother's hands - this is a joke my mother will not appreciate - but I'd never held 50 ones and called them my own. I worked as a lifeguard for two summers and received paychecks that disappeared within hours. A thin piece of paper with the number "30.00" on it is not as appealing as 50 20-dollar-bills. Jackson's face stares at me and says: You are powerful.
Who would think that at the age of 20, working at a local restaurant, I would feel more powerful and more vulnerable than I ever have before? I thought I could slip on a red v-neck shirt and start paying for my own food, my own clothes. I didn't know that in earning the chance to earn money I was selling part of my soul. Don't get me wrong, there's nothing particularly evil about the restaurant business. But there is something very, very sexy about it. Perhaps my soul has not been sold yet. But I've loaned it out and I'm not sure when I'll get it back.
I've been seduced by Jackson. And after googling "faces of presidents on money" I know that I've also been seduced by Washington, Lincoln, Hamilton, Grant and Franklin (I know Franklin wasn't a president). I'm addicted to earning money. The key to this addiction is that I control it. I can say how often I want to work and then magically I'm scheduled. I decide how short I want my shorts to be (also a joke my mother will not like). I decide how big I smile, how quickly I bring you your drinks. Power. And then you decide how much you're going to tip me. Enter: vulnerability. If you tip me 10 percent then I'm smiling a lot harder for my next table. If you tip me 40 percent I'm inevitably smiling. I now have money and I'm back in power.
It's a vicious cycle that, according to most normal people, probably isn't as vicious as most cycles of life. It's a part-time job; how seriously could I be taking it?
For a while I thought I was being ironic when I told stories of restaurant woes and triumphs. I, middle-class white girl, could be a waitress and a student and a million other things. But guess what? I'm not too good to be a waitress. If I think I'm above scraping dried macaroni off dishes, picking up cigarette butts, wiping up bird feces, sweating through every layer I'm wearing, sucking up to arrogant jerks, smiling through pure and thick fury ... then I've proven myself wrong. I have scratches from flipping chairs and I have burns from washing dishes and I have bruises from shin-ramming tables. I also have a new and continually growing respect for the people who serve me food. So yeah, I'm taking this waitress thing pretty seriously.
I tip big. Really big. I used to be a 15 percent stickler. I now believe in restaurant karma. For every ridiculous tip I receive, I pay it forward somewhere else. Because in the end, we're in the same society, aren't we? We serve others because in return they serve us. They pay my way through McDonald's runs and bookstore trips.
I have a love-hate relationship with so many people and things because I'm obsessed with paradoxes and I cannot avoid extreme emotions. I love that I am becoming a viable member of society because of the physical and mental efforts I put forth every six-hour shift. I hate that I can never be a true member of the society because in the end, I am a student. My parents pay for the important stuff. The underlying tension I have with worker girl Connelly and U.Va. Connelly reminds me that I work because I want to. It takes the edge off my complaints, sucks the validity out of my claim to maturity.
I am a waitress. Does it count if I don't survive this way? Does it mean more if I make more? I'm not sure. But I've been seduced. Tips tell me I've done something right. Maybe I'm a new member and maybe I'll always be on the bottom of the hierarchical restaurant totem pole. For now I'm OK with shedding U.Va Connelly at least a few times a week. To you I'm just Connelly "and I'll be your server today."
Connelly's column runs weekly Thursdays. She can be reached at c.hardaway@cavalierdaily.com.
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