Private Hells

It's not a planned thing. I don't set out to do this on purpose, yet - every year, the same hell - I wind up going out for a late night dinner on Prom Night. While in high school, yes...I was on the dance committee, but not because I liked dances -because that was far from the truth. As a bonafide non-traditional girl - school dances were a private sort of hell. Like many, in high school, I bought into the extra curricular activities made you more appealing to colleges after graduated. However, I got tired of high school before graduation, exited stage left and started high school at 15, which proved to be a much better fit.

So, it's 1:30 in the morning and students are doing what they do best - prolonging the evening. Fudging that curfew, maybe even hoping to score. They're loud, obnoxious - typical high school fanfare. I was never a typical high school students, so even now - I'm slightly miffed at the whole 'magick' behind prom. And it's not to say that I was never asked, because I was...I just didn't do dances or being a girl well. I also couldn't fathom coughing up the money it required to attend a dance where the gymnasium became so hot, you spent the bulk of your evening outside in the chill night air where you were ultimately joined by people who ordinarily wouldn't give you the time of day in the hallways. This was the common cause that I often grabbed my shoes and walked or drove to Denny's or Della's for food, coffee, and conversation. Before long, the dance was skipped all together and other school dance rebels joined me for this late night affair.

Despite high school is a speck in my rear view mirror, this ritual seems to keep cropping up. What's worse, while I am not in formal attire, somehow...I'm always classified as 'one of them'. This is where I wish the gray in my hair was a more prominent addition, though I'm sure like others, it would be assumed I had some silver faux hair strategically placed in my sea of ebon tresses. You know, cause silver is the where it's at.

There's a few things that happen when you're considered one of 'them'. The waitresses are frazzled, which I can understand and I'm patient having worked the food industry myself. However, when I'm hit with an assumption i'm going to be a pain in the ass and looked at like I'm wasting your time - we're going to have issues. I'm already miffed to find unidentifiable brown goo on my coffee mug. When it's removed and takes 15 minutes to have a new one dropped off - grr, I say, grr! I dunno maybe I'm becoming less patient in my old age.

Coffee mug aside, it's been one foible after another. Long waits in a restaurant that's not that busy and service that's reminiscent of being waited on by Mr. Magoo. And yes, I know...everyone has off nights, but at some point you pull it together, put in a caffienated IV drip and earn your pay. This tirade I fear is not born from tonight's questionable dinner service, but a string of many over the past few months. It's no wonder I've grown a fondness for buffets as I often find that in a sit-down restaurant I will get up and get things for myself. I can be annoyingly independent like that.

So, I'm pissy. Waiting for refills and being thought of as not 'them'. I'd flash them my ID, but know it'd get one of those confused, then embarrassed glances. The kind where you're not sure it's because they made an assumption or they feel awkward because you don't age right. At least I wasn't carded or questioned about ordering coffee, handed a kid's menu, or asked, "Don't you just hate vaginal itch?"

Yup, even I can find silver linings in a dinner service that would leave Chef Ramsey screaming about planks & Donkeys.