COLUMN: A very special five-year anniversary

By Sage Merritt

Published: May 17, 2008

T oday marks the fifth anniversary of my graduation from Mary Baldwin College in Staunton. I’ve got a very expensive diploma on my wall to show for it (but very little else). My family was pretty pleased five years ago to watch me walk across that stage and shake hands for one last time with MBC’s then-president, Cynthia Tyson, and I was pretty pleased that I would never have to meet another deadline or spend another late night cranking out a story. (If only I had known.)
However, when I look back on that rainy day in 2003, I think much more fondly about another important “graduation.” Today also marks the fifth anniversary of my last day in purgatory, also known as my three-year career as a waitress.
Yes, five years to the day since I cleaned off my tables one last time, clocked out, said my goodbyes, took off my apron and the ridiculous yellow polo shirt they made us wear and, with my tips for the evening clenched in my hand like a golden ticket, walked out of the building to freedom.
Freedom, at the time, meant never having to serve another half-drunk middle-aged businessman a third side of ranch dressing for his hot wings, after he drank the first one and dribbled the second one down his tie in an attempt to shove both wings and ranch cup in his mouth simultaneously. Freedom meant never again listening to 15 versions of Bon Jovi’s “Wanted Dead or Alive” on karaoke-and-cheap-pizza night. Most of all, freedom meant never, ever again wearing grease-stained khaki shorts in the middle of winter.
Don’t get me wrong — I liked waitressing. I met plenty of interesting folks and made a lot of friends during my time in the restaurant industry. I also learned many practical skills that benefit me to this day, even as a journalist. For instance, I learned to always have a pen, and to keep track of all my notes in case I needed them later. I learned that indignant people aren’t likely to listen to reason, particularly if they are intoxicated. I learned how to avoid the romantic advances of men old enough to be my grandfather. I learned the precise kicking technique to make a broken computer work.
Being a waitress wasn’t always fun or educational, though. I occasionally encountered the worst examples of humanity sitting at my tables, hiding among the otherwise well-adjusted. Anyone who doesn’t tip after a $75 meal belongs in a secret prison, along with people who let their children run wild in crowded restaurants. Ditto anyone who has ever walked out without paying or insisted on having “just a few” of their drinks knocked off their bill, and anyone who believes that waitresses and other service people don’t have the right to their own personal space. (That’s right! The people serving your drinks probably don’t want a backrub from a customer while they’re working!)
Almost everyone goes out to eat, at least once in a while, and that means being waited on. Just remember, before you act a fool, that the people waiting on your table will remember you, and your face, and possibly your name. And, some day, they might just be writing about you in the newspaper.
Read Sage’s blog, “With Merritt,” on http://www.NewsVirginian.com.