Crazy Legs

So I’ve been working at the new place for a few weeks now, and it’s pretty much exactly what I feared it would be. The transition from Mom's to this loud, high-energy sports bar has been jarring, to say the least. Back at the diner, it was regulars, pancakes, and coffee refills. No one was really looking at me. Here? I can feel their eyes on me constantly. The hair, the makeup, the outfit—they all do their job a little too well, which is both validating and completely exhausting.

Financially, things have flipped. My base pay has shrunk, but my tips have absolutely exploded. You’d think that’d be a win, but honestly, it’s complicated. There’s something a little demoralizing about putting in a full week of work and realizing that  all I’ve really done is “earn” a very expensive new purse. Sure, it’s a designer bag and I look great carrying it, but I didn’t choose it. It’s just the kind of thing that gets expected of me now. Pretty girl, pretty accessories. Spend some time looking good and saying the right thing in fishnets and heels, and suddenly you’re carrying a $300 bag instead of $300 in your checking account. It’s a different kind of currency, and I’m not sure I like the exchange rate.

The bar itself? It’s not bad. Actually, it’s kind of fun, just not from this side of the table. If I were here with friends, watching a game and sipping something cold, I’d probably love it. But instead, I’m carrying trays, faking a smile at every “Crazy Legs” and “sweetheart,” and pretending not to hear the guys at Table 9 debating if I’m a cheerleader or an ex-gymnast. I never thought I’d be this good at blending in, but now that I am… I’m starting to understand just how complicated “passing” can be. It gets you in the door, sure, but once you’re in, you have to play the part or risk everything.