I pulled into the Chenequa Country Club parking lot like I had many times before, dreading the ten-hour shift that lay in front of me. My black work pants dragged through the pockets of puddles in the asphalt from the morning rain. I desperately needed pants that fit me, but I refused to spend my paycheck on clothes for work.

When I got inside, I clocked in, and suited up in my apron, dress shirt, and finally, my bowtie. I laced up my $4 little boy, fake leather dress shoes from Goodwill, and internally remarked on the irony of how cheaply I was dressed for working at such a high-end establishment, where the cheapest shoes I would see all night were Steve Maddens. 

Although I was bitter about being there, I kept telling myself, this is the most special day of someone’s life, and all I had to do was plaster a fake smile on my face for a couple of hours in order to do my part in making their day seamlessly perfect. 

As I passed out hors d’oeuvre to the joyous wedding-goers, my eyes scanned the room for the bride. I snaked through the tables and people, trying to get rid of as many bacon-wrapped water chestnuts as I could. When I got to the bride, I couldn’t wait to compliment her. Being the center of attention, she was challenging to get a word in with, but as all the people surrounding her took grabs at the hors d’oeuvres, I showered her with compliments about her stunning dress, how beautiful her hair looked, or how gorgeous she looked. She, of course, had her this 1000 times that night, but I knew, at my wedding, if one of the servers or bussers took the time to compliment me when they would without a doubt rather be anywhere else, it would mean the world to me. 

I watched her smile light up her face and turned away as people swarmed around her once more. I felt like I had expanded my job description to “Busser and Professional Bride Complimenter.”