When the pandemic temporarily closed restaurants in March 2020, I had been waiting tables since I graduated college. I was free for a month or so when I moved from San Diego to New York City in 2015, but otherwise, I’d never taken more than a week off. I waitressed for longer than I attended college, longer than I’ve been writing professionally, longer than I’ve known many of my friends, longer than I’ve lived in New York.
My last workplace, before the pandemic, was by turns both intensely casual and casually intense. I wore velour pants nearly every day. I wore crop tops or chopped up beer t-shirts over sports bras. I texted in the bathroom and got in trouble for it rarely, maybe once every two months. One day, one of my managers said that I’m “the only person who doesn’t give him any trouble.” My coworkers laughed and laughed. If I wasn’t the worst waitress, I was certainly the most mediocre. I worked an easy schedule, and I made good money. When I didn’t want to work, I’d put my shifts up on an online scheduling platform and someone would pick them up within minutes.
Read Full Article »