Light cigarette after cigarette. Don't smoke them but let them burn down to the filter in the ashtray as the smoke trails after you, trying to remind you of its existence. Listen to the new girl tell you a story of her old man. Pretend you are down, feign interest. Curse intermittently. You are one of them.

Hear someone play a song on the touch-tune jukebox. It breaks the monotony of the Muzak stations. It reminds you of your old life, one that involved good music being played all day, wearing trendy clothing, killing time by yourself. Everything revolved around you, remember?

Let your hair down. You are beginning to be like one of them. Gossip about the "whore" of a new girl. Gossip about B and A hooking up last weekend. You really don't care, but you got frustrated trying to talk politics, gender studies, or bluegrass with any of these people. You just quit trying.

Drink draft beer. Let men call you honey, sweetie, baby. Hairs stand up on the back of your neck. You remember when you would get in a boy's face; yell "Who do you possibly think you are talking to?" Now, "Sure, and what kind of beer was that again? A tall Coors Light? I'd love to get you another." Remember how you hate the word "pretty." Remember how you were known once for being smarter than being cute. Crumble a little more on the inside.

Notice the only people you wait on that you like are those who take an interest in you – but not too much. Those that don't seem so surprised that you've been to college and have a degree. Those that will ask aloud, "How the hell did you end up in this place?" Remember that you desperately needed a job. Remember that it didn't seem so bad at first. Remember, this job made you confront all of the previous beliefs you had. But now, your response, "I don't remember."

You get home at 3 in the morning. You make a bagged lunch for your son, cutting up organic grapes, packing raisins, goldfish, one cookie that the two of you made together the day before. You are still in your work clothes and you can smell the grease and smoke and beer and humiliation. You continue making a healthy lunch for your three-year-old son who

goes to preschool just two mornings a week because, really, that is all that you can bear. He is the reason for it all and you look at him and the day of work is erased. He is beautiful. You write notes on his paper towel "napkins" that you hope he can understand since he cannot read. Smiley faces, hearts, dinosaur interpretations. Maybe you just want his teachers to realize how much he is loved. Because he is.

On your day off work you try to do as much as possible with your son, your husband, your friends. You really only have one day and all you want to do is sleep. Relax. Do things like you did when you were 21 and you had a whole day just to blow off. These are the things that you miss. Irresponsibility, ain't it grand? You do three loads of laundry instead and vacuum all the while trying to be super mom.

Two of the boys on staff will laugh and ask if you want to smoke pot as you are closing the restaurant. They think it's hilarious offering super mom to do drugs and you will laugh to yourself and think "God, if they only knew." But really, you are terrified they will all one day find out you were a complete waste and take your beautiful reward of a redhead away. So you giggle, tell them they are out of their minds and remember listening to bootlegs of the Grateful Dead with the cute hippie boy you met your first year of college. He would learn to play songs for you in the courtyard. You would melt. That was what life was going to be like forever.

Be mean to new servers. Become offended when you are offered a "promotion." Scream on the inside "this job is a means to an end!" Politely decline, realize you have insulted "upper management." Pour weaker drinks all night to compensate.

Listen to your regulars at the bar. Realize you thought you knew stupid people before you worked here, but really, you had no idea. You wonder if all of their parents gave their children whippets to shut them up at night and this would be the result. Pretend you are not passionately feminist, independent, raging at the America this country has become. Smoke in the break room instead. A server will come grab you. "I need a beer, Court." "Don't we all," you'll always respond.

Look around one day and realize this is what our country is truly made of: no culture, instant gratification, wannabe wealthy, rude morons. And all 13 seats of your bar are full of them. And you want their money. Which one of you is worse?

Get sad people drunker. Succeed. Make lots of money. Make men feel weaker for refusing shots. Succeed. Make more money. Talk restaurant shop with other servers. Get them more beers. Pretend you forgot to ring one in. Make more money. You have just had a great night. But what was the real cost?

You had three internships in college. You wanted to help people. You would let young college girls call you and ask you questions. You ran a pro-choice, pro-women club. You worked for a paper on an island and interviewed government officials. You were smart. You were gifted. You had a nervous breakdown. Is this really where you end up?

When someone finds out you want to be a writer, they'll ask you why? You used to know. You used to have an eloquent, educated and easily recited response. Now, you don't know. You've lost the intimidating vocabulary you once had and find yourself throwing the word "retarded" into everyday conversation. Who are you?

Drink energy drinks and coffee all day. Have insomnia every night. Drink a beer after work just to come down from it all. Wake up one day and realize you are old. You look old and you bawl your eyes out. Tell people you should get a big girl job. A nine-to-five, weekends-off kind of job, where you wear black pants and pumps. Do "important" things. Do "real job" things. Realize then why you really keep this job: it's the only shred of irresponsibility you are still hanging onto. Become unsure if that's okay or just truly pathetic. Pretend not to care.

Chaperone field trips. Try to make friends in mommy and me groups. Keep the mommies at a distance. Take him to music classes in the hip part of Cincinnati. Try to find some of your old self in this new self you have become. Hate it when people ask you what you do. Most of the moms are at least 10 years older than you are. Cringe. Tell them you work in a restaurant. But on the inside scream out, "I went to college! I had front-page stories! I

interned with the ACLU!" Instead, tell them you do this to stay at home with your son during the day while your husband watches him at night. You don't know if this makes you a good mom or just a plain exhausted one. Watch the women's faces when you try to shock some of their snootiness out of them when you say the word "bartender." Secretly, this part thrills you.

Hate it when customers ask about your family. They will want to know about the cute little redhead they saw you with. You feel that your guard has been let down. That is your private life. The world outside of the crap job that makes the crap job bearable. You will smile and tell the people a few random and neutral stories of your son. Always learn to have a good segue so they can begin talking about themselves again. You only occasionally have to remind them – it's not about the bartender. It's always about the customer. And if you do this well, you will make lots of money. And hear awful, personal things that probably their friends don't even know. You will begin to hate this part.

You try to be one of the normal, working-class people. You tell nothing of your childhood. They'll look shocked if one of the servers accidentally makes a reference to your real home. The Virgin Islands? The bar guest will look angry – a bartender, a waiter, none of those people should ever have a better life than those we serve.

You'll feel a sense of family after a certain time has passed. You know details of relationships, divorces, infidelities, children, pet names, hobbies and all of the problems in the servers' lives. You'll even begin to like some of these people. People that you never would have come across in this life. And eventually, you'll want something better not just for yourself, but for them. But you look around and realize once you get the hell out of this place, these people will still be here. This place will still be the same way – only you'll finally be gone.