A Pattern Emerges

I’ve realized something lately. Everything I choose to do with my life is judgment-based.

Singing – an intangible way to be judged. One person may like one particular sound; another may think you sound like a dying rhinoceros. (And yeah, I spelled that correctly on the first try.) You may be too tall for someone; too short for another. You may be TOO pretty or not pretty enough. You may be too fat or too thin in the same audition room. Your dress is hideous or it’s lovely and distracting. Your shoes are insensible or just plain ugly. The way you wore your hair that day. Your makeup. Your headshot. The lighting in your headshot. The layout of your resume. One of the people you’ve worked with is one of the auditioners biggest enemies or greatest friends. You’re the third person in a row to sing that aria. They don’t know your aria. They hate your aria. The timing of your audition: they want to take a break. They want to eat lunch. They’re thinking about a turkey sandwich instead of listening to you. They just ate lunch. They’re full. They ate too much of their turkey sandwich. They shouldn’t have had that cookie. They really need to pee. They have to fart but that would be rude. They’re thirsty. Their lips are chapped and your cadenza is keeping them from bliss. They know their cell phone is going off for the third time, silently, in their bag and they’re in the middle of a huge fight with their significant other/child. It could be literally ANYTHING.

Waitressing – another intangible form of judgment, except instead of being cast in something you’re given money. I don’t know about you other servers out there, but I feel like I have failed if I don’t get 20% or more as a tip. There are some people who just simply WILL NOT tip you 20%. You could be the best goddamn server they’ve ever had and entertain their child while they eat or do acrobatic entertainment for their enjoyment, and they will still only tip you 15 or 18%. You could falter in suggesting an entrée. You could suggest something they end up not liking. You don’t know what part of the Atlantic the fish of the day is indigenous to. You have trouble describing the taste of fontina cheese. The kitchen could be jammed. The food could take too long. The food runner could spill something. They could spill something. They may have to wait longer than 20 seconds to be sat at a table. It’s still YOUR FAULT, the server. Even if you can’t control how many other people are ordering the exact same thing at the exact same time and causing a backup to happen in the kitchen. Even if greeting and seating isn’t your responsibility. Even if the busser knocks over a water glass. Even if you can’t control the fact that you look like their ex-girlfriend or boyfriend who stomped on their heart in college. YOUR. FAULT. Minus 1%. Minus another 1% for every extra minute it takes you to get their credit card receipt to them, even if their card won’t swipe and you have to find a manager during the dinner rush to void the payment and then re-ring it all in, “Don’t Make”. Minus another 1% for the amount of time it takes you to PERSONALLY SERVE their Sangria. You have to open the bottle at the table and mix it in with the juice and then pour it in a way that each person gets some fruit in their glass and you need to do it in 30 seconds or less so they may continue their conversation without you listening in. YOUR FAULT.

How did this happen? Mom, I blame you. I blame you because I need approval and I need a grade and I need assessment. I blame you because you told me that waitressing was in my blood. It’s not in my brother’s blood but somehow it’s in mine. I blame you for raising me to be someone who can stand up to criticism and take what I want and leave the bullshit behind. I blame you for raising me to work my ass off at everything I do. I blame you for teaching me how money can come and go like rain. I blame you for teaching me to rise above it all and still be a human being.

So…thank you.