I’m dating a guy I met at a bar. I was clearly incoherent at the time because the only thing I remember was him telling me he was a musician. I’m a classically trained pianist who competed until I was a teenager. My sister (who has way more musical talent that I do) is a piano teacher, has perfect pitch, and can pretty much pick up an instrument within seconds. So musicians are super-hot in my book. With that one tidbit of information, we exchanged numbers and agreed to go out.
On our first date, I had to get to know the guy again, considering the state I had been in when we had initially met. The date was going splendidly. Then he said, “Do you remember that I’m a waiter? I wait tables at Sam’s.”
GULP. A waiter? I was stunned. I had to catch my breath. Deep breath, now exhale. Alrighty then, time to go. “Check please!” The waiter tidbit ended the date for me. I yawned and faked fatigue.
At home, I brouhaha’d over how much I really enjoyed this guy’s company. But I can’t date a waiter. What am I going to tell my friends and family? “This is the guy I’m dating. By the way, he’s a waiter.” Gadzooks. A future with him flashed before my eyes. “Hi Everyone. This is my husband. He’s a waiter.” Just shoot me. Just fucking shoot me. I mean, I know this all sounds so pretentious and snooty, but seriously. I can’t date a waiter!
I was a waitress back in college. Not now. Not now that I’m 30 years old. I mean, who in their right mind, aspires to be a waiter??? That’s it. I decided I was done with him. I’m just not going to call him back. Just ignore ever having met the guy.
Then…like it always does…that festering Catholic guilt crept into my consciousness. You have to call him back. You’re not that much of a shit. Just call him back and say you’re busy for the next couple weeks. Give him the fade.
I picked up the phone and made the call. He answered.
My memory is failing me in my old age. I don’t remember the specifics, but I really enjoyed talking to him on the phone. I really liked him. It was shocking. He was on the chopping block, but now here he was rising like a Phoenix from the ashes of ‘waiter’-ness. He seems so smart and witty which fuels my desire to scream, “What the hell are you doing waiting tables?” But I don’t. I’m too embarrassed to ask. So I’ll have to ‘wait’ and see.