"Sorry for saying you stole my boxes and sorry for almost hitting you with the door."

Generally accepted rules of decency and codes of conduct are thrown out the window in the process of getting one's job done. I like to think the abrasive phrases commonly heard throughout my shifts at the diner can be translated into courtesies, for example: 
"I'm behind you. Out of my way or I will run you down," = "Pardon me."
The rules of the road, such as staying to the right when maneuvering around the restaurant, are completely ignored. It's been hard for me to cope with this strange form of walking around with a constant killer instinct. No matter where I walk or stand, I'm always in someone's way.

From the start, I've been very impressed with most of the servers' professional attitudes, but one thing I'll never understand is how everyone takes everything that happens on the job so personally. For the most part, they can put personal drama aside to provide quick and attentive service, but for some reason, they go to pieces over everything else. The girls cry over arguments with the kitchen workers, are terrified of bosses, and are regularly at odds with other waitresses. Maybe this is where I'm going wrong; I can take any criticism from coworkers because I see most of it as constructive, but I feel so guilty and sad if I perceive that a customer is less than pleased with something.


Honestly, my tables have all been pretty boring...nice people, but not much to tell. 75% of the time if a male is present when I ask if they'd like the check, the response is joke that goes something along the lines of "No, not really..would you taking care of that?" or the ever-popular "You can just put that bill right into the shredder."


Everyone, both customers and coworkers, asks me questions about alcohol. Does this mean I look like a drunk or a nightlife sophisticate? Two elderly women at a table that wasn't even under my jurisdiction called me over to grill me with questions about margaritas. Apparently it was the (slightly) younger woman's first margarita ever and it had been given to her in a pint glass, when she had expected a beautiful display. I kept her company and explained the ins and outs of the drink while her waitress obtained a prettier glass from the bar. It's beyond why this 80-year-old chose the diner for her first margarita. As I walked away after she got her new, more elegant (martini) glass, she called to me, "Oooh sweetie! I like it!"