Being retired is great and all. Really it is. I’m busy, I have my friends, my writing course, my blog… blah blah… 

I want to go to work. I miss being engaged in a workplace community. I live in a small tourist city where restaurants are important. They need workers, and in days of yore, I happen to have been an excellent waitress although there were a few stumbles along the way. Here’s what happened.

I was a student in a rental apartment. My roommate and I had paid a full year’s rent within the eight month school year. (Would that even be legal nowadays?) I decided to spend the summer in my college city rather than go home. 

The previous summer I had worked as a hostess at a well established popular Niagara Falls restaurant. I still have Joan Rivers’ autograph from when I seated her at our best table with the best view. (She was very gracious by the way.)

This being my first summer away from home, I had big plans. I wanted to work as a waitress to earn big tips in a high end restaurant and make enough money to support myself through the next school year. 

I sashayed full of confidence into a fancy restaurant downtown. I told the truth about my experience, but I sprinkled in a white lie that had enormous consequences. I said I had been a hostess – truth – I said I had been trained as a waitress – lie – but had never actually worked as a waitress – truth. 

I was hired. They told me to show up in three days and to have a white blouse and a full length black skirt. I bought a pattern and fabric for a button front, high waist band skirt with slash pockets. Three days later I was ready. I pictured myself gliding about the dining room in my elegant array.

Well… my first day on the job, as soon as the maitre’d saw me carry a tray with both hands on the side and no idea of where or how to put it down — they knew I was no waitress. I did look good though. My skirt was much nicer than the no-nonsense, polyester, elastic waist, machine-washable pull-on skirts of the others.  

The main incident occurred when I dropped a tray loaded with a full pot of tea. Cups, saucers, milk, all of it, splattered right square in the middle of the restaurant. I lasted five days and was told not to return.

As yet undaunted, I took myself and my beautiful skirt to another high end restaurant in a different part of downtown. This time I told them I had worked as a hostess and had only minimal training as a waitress. Hired again. 

There was potential for this situation to work out if they would have kept me in the dining room. However they put me upstairs in the piano bar. By myself. 

I didn’t know how to mix a drink beyond a gin and tonic. People were ordering fancy cocktails, daiquiris, French coffees, Spanish coffees, this, that. I didn’t even know how to make a regular coffee. I was way over my head.

Someone ordered a shrimp cocktail. Off I went down to the kitchen to retrieve it. Going back up the stairs, I tripped on my beautiful long black skirt. Shrimp cocktail everywhere all over the beautiful carpet. Courage could be described as that moment when you have to reenter the kitchen with a destroyed shrimp cocktail.

Two weeks I lasted there. By this point I felt I was starting to catch on but it was too late to save me.

On I went to a third restaurant still in my elegant black skirt. This one was more of a road house, and a long bus ride away from downtown. My best friend from school was working there and had put in a good word for me. Between her more experienced counsel, and what I had managed to learn on my own, I felt I was getting this waitressing thing down pat. 

In the middle of a shift, my friend and I paused in the hallway outside the kitchen to exchange a few words. I looked up just in time to see the owner watching us. And you know that prescient feeling you get? I knew as soon as he made eye contact I was done for. Yup. I can only guess he thought I would talk more than wait. He kept my friend on but I was out the door.

My big plans were not turning out. I shed big tears at my friend’s house.

I considered my options. I could go back home but it was unlikely I would find employment there this late in the summer. Besides, I had my youthful pride to consider. I didn’t want my Mother to think I couldn’t manage by myself. I still clung to the idea that waitresses could make a lot of money on tips and I really had no idea what other job would be possible for me. 

So off I went to another downtown restaurant. This time a small diner owned by a family from Greece. I had to wear a little red uniform with Macedonian style trim, a peasant blouse, and ugly white cushy diner shoes. And let’s not forget the kerchief to hold my hair back.

I had to swallow my pride, retire my beautiful long black skirt and serve humble pie.

But guess what? It was a great experience. They did a busy lunch time trade. On weekends they featured authentic Greek dishes which at the time, believe it or not, was radical kitchen fare. I learned a lot and had fun doing it.

To recount, that was four restaurants, three firings, one month. 

The next summer, I moved down the street to a different restaurant. Not high end perhaps, but a very respectable steak house. The long black skirt was back on the floor. I was the best waitress there. I swung.

I developed a regular customer base. All large groups were seated at my station because the owner knew I could keep up. The kitchen staff loved me. I was never late to pick up my plates. To me, it was like playing chess; think three steps ahead, drop off bar order, joke with the bartender, pick up salad order, joke with the sous chef, take order from new table, serve drink order, pick up in kitchen, throw a joke at the busboy. Swing. 

Instead of learning how to waitress, I learned a few things about myself. I learned I had resilience. I learned I could get stubbornly stuck on an idea but if I just gave a little bit of flexibility, things would work out. 

I am seriously considering finding my swing again in one of these nearby downtown high end restaurants. I have a long black skirt should it be required. Stay tuned.

Stay safe everyone.

Anne Milne is an every Sunday blogger.  Facebook or Twitter.