This guy came in tonight—not too bad looking, maybe in his late 40’s, early 50’s. You could tell right away he was the type that liked younger women but everyone’s into something so who am I to judge. But just because you’re into younger women doesn’t mean they’re into you. Nothing personal, but I don’t want to date the guy who has mastered the art of his golf swing and is an old pro at prostate exams. If twice my age still doesn’t add up to yours, than this conversation is over.

“If you were my sugar baby I would dye your hair a fiery red,” he says with a wink. Oh please, tell me more. Do go on. Tell me all about the things I would be required to do for the sake of enjoying the pleasure of your company. No, don’t stop. I don’t have four other tables waiting to order their dinner. Don’t worry about it. I have plenty of time to stand here mastering the art of my poker face while you continue to fail miserably at convincing me to take you up on this one time offer.

“Are you bisexual, bicurious, or straight?  Because my girlfriend, she’s twenty, she and I are looking for a unicorn.”

Now I don’t know what a unicorn is but I can promise you one thing and that is that whatever I am it is exactly the opposite of everything you want me to be, plus twenty is a little young and I’m not a cradle robber, although obviously you are.

All the while table 12 needs bread, ketchup, and a bowl of chicken noodle soup and if table 26 doesn’t get their food piping hot straight from the kitchen than they’ll send it back. Not to mention table 23—they need two sides of blue cheese, a side of thousand island, an extra plate, and two more bowls of soup. And I forgot to memo bacon on the side for my Cobb salad and if I don’t make it to the kitchen in the next 30 seconds the order will go out wrong and I’ll have to apologize profusely, buy the table dessert, and eat the mistake salad to save face which is an additional 1200 calories I don’t need in my life. But yeah, keep talking. I am here for you. Only for you. No one else matters.

The lady at the next table over is clearing her throat and rattling the ice around in her empty glass and my busboy is somewhere in the back doing god knows what and still I’m stuck here listening to your poor attempts at seduction and wondering what sin I committed in the past 24 hours that has made me worthy of such punishment. I cut off an old lady this morning on my way to work and I know it was wrong but come on, she was driving 24 in a 40 zone and I’m sure she understands.

Just look at me. I’m on a double shift, I’ve been working since 7:30 this morning and it’s 6 o’clock at night and my ponytail is too tight and it’s pulling at the sides of my eyes and maybe that’s the problem because you’re probably into Asian chicks and you think I have an ethnic relative or something but I’m just white and tired and the only thing I want to know is what the hell you are planning on having for dinner so I can refill this lady’s iced tea. Mam, please, for the sake of all things holy and my own sanity stop rattling your damn glass how in the hell is that ice not melted by now and where the hell is my busboy and what the hell are you having for dinner? What. Are. You. Having. For. Dinner.

You tell me you play poker but for someone who plays poker you can’t read a tell for shit because my eyes have been telling you to please stop for the last five minutes and you just don’t seem to get it.

“I made up my mind we should bang, I mean hang,” he says.

I swear I will never cut off anyone again.

“So are you going to give me your number or am I going to give you mine?”

Perfect attendance is not worth this suffering.

My busboy has arrived with reinforcements and the lady at the table next door is happily enjoying her iced tea but by now, out of the corner of my eye, I’m watching the expo bring table 23 the Cobb salad that is certainly loaded with bacon and I’m already preparing an apology in the back of my mind and loosening a buckle on my belt in preparation for those additional calories and I’m weighing out the cost benefit analysis of taking an uber to work from this point forward to avoid the risk of karma sneaking up on me again. I’m trying to recall the make, model, and license plate of the woman’s car so that maybe a sympathetic employee at the DMV (do those even exist?) will tell me where she lives so that I can send her flowers and make full amends for the wrong I have done.

I will not dye my hair and I will not call you daddy and you will never leave this restaurant with my number and if you don’t order in the next sixty seconds you will be leaving this restaurant with an empty stomach. So please just order your dinner and let me do my job because the lady at the table next to you is once again reaching the end of her iced tea and if I have to hear the rattle of ice in her glass one last time I’ll take that glass and you’ll find that a prostate exam doesn’t come close to what I have in mind for you.

I’d like to meet your twenty-year-old girlfriend. I’d like to look into the eyes of the young woman who taught you that this behavior could ever get you a girl. Because let me tell you something now: I did not take this job because I enjoy being objectified by older men.  None of us did.  I took this job to pay the tuition checks of a university that, if anything, has taught me that I don’t need to give in to some guy who is caught up in a mid life crisis. I am here to serve you dinner. I am not here to serve you.