I'm a waitress

 I adjusted my apron for the hundredth time today. I straightened out some loose strands of hair by bounding it close with a bobby pin. I had to reapply my lipstick.
Sprayed some fragrance. This was my job.
I had to look extremely appealing to the customer. I stood tirelessly in my stilettos and hobbled across the smooth floor. I smiled while the customer took ages to decide between whether to order dessert or stick to a salad. I waited while the kids played with the menu card and the parents were glued to their mobile screens confused on whether or what to order. I had seen customers leave after gulping four glasses of water. Often due to their fickle mindedness,
I was under the radar getting reprimanded for not attending to them quicker or looking prim.

 I mean what’s a waitress right? She brings you food and drinks smiles at you while you eat and then you think it’s because she wants to get tipped. Well, guess what we aren’t paid so well. A lot of what we earn is through generous customers. The coffee I brought you is exorbitantly priced. Probably half my wages.

But if you don’t tip me because of the poor taste or ridiculous pricing, you see my reputation is at stake. Because I work in an upscale restaurant, my pay isn’t proportional to what you spend on a cup of coffee. What you are paying is for the air conditioning, clean cutlery, blaring music and the assurance that you won’t be asked to leave despite the whole table sharing a measly drink.
 I have had to work two shifts covering up for a fellow worker when she was ill. My weekends aren’t really for kicking back and sauntering around the house in comfortable pyjamas. My time offs are erratic. I may or not get one.

 If I voluntarily choose to take one, It may get deducted from my base wage. I have stood taking orders the whole evening. I have walked on these mirror-like floors in pointy heels. Stood in the kitchen in the heat, grime and smoke when people complained that their food was taking too long to arrive. Carrying tall glasses of hot coffee on glass trays, almost jogging lest the customer crib that the taste was lost in the transit. Carried extra packets of sugar, milk, coffee powder, salt, pepper, chilli flakes and whatever else they deemed imperative to accentuate the taste of the dish.

 No one has ever blamed the customer. For us, you are the source of income and therefore you automatically fall in the god-like status. Some of you think it’s a favour that you are doing by tipping us. Well, no. You see I don’t have to go beyond my job description to get penalised because the soup was too watery or the dessert was too sweet. But my stakes are high. If I don’t go back to the kitchen and arrive with a replacement or persuade you that the chef is new, my tips are automatically deducted.

 Some of you are smarter. Pay by card or those fancy apps that you can leave without leaving me anything.
After seventeen hours of standing, carrying food, taking orders, my face starts to show signs of tiredness too. I have always asked you if your food is good. How many times have you asked if I’ve eaten? I’m supposed to take a break when the customer stream is sparse. Nobody decides on what’s that number. My eyes are always on the lookout for when a customer would walk in, see that there’s no one to attend to them and decide to just leave.

Mostly I’m hungry when I take your orders. When I bring your drink, I wish I could pause for a drink of water. When I watch you eat and wait for you to spit more instructions, I wish I could sit and breathe. When I watch you waste food, it pains me to see that what I cannot afford, you are squandering.

 See, my face is allowed to be tired, stomach to feel ravenous, legs to ache and feet to swell up after incessant usage of shiny stilettos. My hair is allowed to be astray. My lipstick is allowed to bleed after being subjected to the barbecue smoke.

My eyes can look like a raccoon after being sleep deprived for days. I still have to muster the courage to apply a pancake layer of makeup and smile. None of my frivolity is what you have signed up for. My job is to take that all with a smiling stride.

Bring you the food and dessert, vouch for dishes that I would never order even if I could afford it, serve you with utmost grace. Pray that the food is delectable and wait for you to leave so that I can flip the menu card hoping for some tips. It is that on this tipping scale of balance that my life hangs. I pray for you to like me so that I can bring food to my table. Ironical and sad.