A (weekend)Day in My Life

In order to understand this post, if you have not already, you must read A (week)Day in My Life. The monotony of those days rivals my weekends with a vengeance. It is almost like I lead a double life...

It is Friday; technically not a weekend day, but for those in the restaurant world, you know what I mean. The overnight bag was hastily packed this morning. At least the clothes are clean. I don't do dirty clothes. Dirty clothes are for drunks; for people who don't care. I am a lush, not a drunk.



I head off to the office and perform my duties until 2:30 hits. I filled up my gas tank on my lunch break, all I have left to do is run home to iron my shirts and apron and double check my bag. My shirts have to be crisp, with sleeves so sharp, you have to be careful not to cut yourself on the crease.

Here's the bag checklist:

• lighter
  
• wine key
  
• 2 pairs of black socks; one pair doesn't match
  
• black "frocs"
  
• coin bank (scattered in my car)
  
• cash bank ($10,$5, five $1's)
  
• dark jeans
  
• brush
  
• toothpaste
  
• tamps (you never know)
  
• 800 milligrams of ibuprofin (you always know)
  
• 3 clicky pens (I like these from Staples, they are nice and pointy and I always have coupons)
  
• black baker's apron with a freshly ironed crease right down the middle
  
• 3 ironed oxford shirts, without collar buttons
  

If I show up to my shift and don't have any of these items, I may be sent home. Or if someone is there to "shark" or steal a shift, I miss my chance at working and will likely be written up. Three write-ups and your out! This place does not mess around! Would you, if you were selling 600 dinners in a night in the middle of NW DC?

Yes, Washington, District of Colombia is where my limbo-life takes place. A brisk hour and forty-five minute drive, unless a tractor trailor overturns and blocks 4 lanes of traffic (like last Friday)... That drive took me 3 hours. Nevertheless, once I walk through those revolving glass doors at 5:00 PM on Friday and the smell of fried green tomatoes wafts over me, everything else ceases to exist.

During the week, I put in 40 hours, most of which are spent sitting down doing menial tasks. On the weekend, I can put in anywhere from 18-30 hours, most of which are hours spent running up and down stairs, carrying trays full of drinks or plates full of food. While physically this job is very demanding, it is the mental process that sucks the life from you. One my coworkers likened it to running a timed marathon with obstacle courses. Needless to say, come Sunday night, when most people are lounging and enjoying their "Day of Rest", I am struggling to keep my eyes open in order to make it back to Richmond in time to crawl in bed and crash for a few hours before my weekday routine starts all over again.

It is a beautiful life.