Aging in the Service Industry

Aging in the service industry, particularly for women, is pretty much the equivalent of suddenly counting up your birthdays in dog years. You’re aging at a fast clip, rounding the corner to a career at Albert’s and the realization that the varicose veins that came with the job can actually be seen through your most opaque tights.

I went to a party a while ago and met a friend of a friend. The friend was 23, a waitress and in zero possession of any tact. I was about to turn 27 the following week and was feeling a little unsure about it. “Wow,” she’d said to me, “If I was 27 and still waitressing I’d kill myself.” Then we all sort of stood around staring at each other, me in a onesie because it was a wigs and onesies party and though everyone else had thought to bring a change of clothes I hadn’t.

My mother had called a few days later to wish me a happy almost thirtieth, and when I reminded her that I was only turning 27 she replied with a, “Yeah, it’s close enough.”

With each new year, particularly when part of your job is serving students you realize how old you’re getting. Someone will remark, “Isn’t it crazy that we can legally serve people born in ’97 now?” And as you nod your ascent it will occur to you that the person making this comment is five years younger than you and that they don’t know who Nirvana is and they don’t care.

I’d been off work for a little while and was considering going back to it, when a few days ago I’d run into some of the boys I’d been serving since my early college days. They went on to do other things and I just really hadn’t—my brief career as a personal communications assistant had somehow been more embarrassing than any of the waitressing gigs ever could be, not least because it had inexplicably involved a vast number of displays of public exercising, often in intersections and on the local news—and the last time I’d seen them they had suggested that maybe it was time for me to make a break for it and try something else. I suspect that my bitterness was starting to show like a rather obvious tan line. We’d all stood around gripping our drinks as I waited for them to ask me if I was considering going back to my old job (a position I’d quit a total of five times) and knowing that I’d have to say yes.

It's a catch 22 I suppose. I’m aging out of a career that by the time you’re really good at it, most bosses have no use for you and you’re really too pissed off to do the job anyway. Everyone else in the room is young and circling around the tables at a speed you no longer have an interest at moving at, and meanwhile you’re trying to break in a pair of orthopedic shoes.