I see God in birds and Satan in long words

I distinctly remember, when I was a but a wide-eyed 14-year-old, musing about the future jobs I would hold. I'm not talking about the clandestine, adulthood, occupational style of job (because of course I was going to be a musician. I mean a stage manager. I mean an English teacher...) but the part-time, Clerks-type job that would get me through my high school and college years and allow me to pretend I had a modicum of life experience and independence at the age of 16. My sister and some of my older friends held jobs at places like Dairy Queen, Walden Books, and Party City, and frankly I couldn't get over how cool it sounded when someone close to my age used "paycheck" or "coworker" in a sentence.

Anyway, I distinctly remember thinking to myself, "I'd be happy with pretty much anything, I think. Anything but food service. I'll never work food service." Now, after one cafe, one pizza joint, one coffee shop, and two American-style restaurants, I find this memory hilarious.

I'd characterize my lengthy chronicle of food service experience as akin to a really high-maintenance and sporadically violent girlfriend. I always have something to complain about and I frequently get injured. It's a little embarrassing to admit to my friends that, in my heart of hearts, I really do enjoy having my job around, despite her constant nagging and attempts to claw up my forearms.

If anything, food service work results in life experiences that give you some practical information about yourself. Are you capable of apologizing profusely about something that is completely trivial and not remotely your fault? How good are you at continuing a task per usual immediately after severely burning the side of your hand? Do you convey a convincing fake-sincere thank-you smile? How many separate pieces of information can you hold in your mind before you have to start writing things down? Are you secure enough with yourself to not get offended when someone treats you like a servant or dismisses you with a flippant wave? What's the quickest way to count various denominations of cash? How long can you stay standing before you really get tired? Are you a complainer? Are you the kind of person who will pick up other peoples' slack, who will let the slack go, or who will yell at the slackers about it?

Not that all of these lessons are particular to food service (except maybe the one about the burns), but having also worked in retail, in-office, and at home, I do think food service is a unique enough experience that, in my presumably more dignified latter years, I'll probably look back on this period of my life with a weird brand of nostalgia not entirely dissimilar to a VFW.