What is it about the Olive Garden that I always run into someone I know? Tonight it was our realtor, apparently she moonlights there.
I remember those days as if it was yesterday: running drinks and refilling endless soup, salad, and bread sticks. Although I don’t miss that place with it’s force-feeding of wine, I do miss serving a bit.
I miss that large wad of cash in my apron after a few hours of work. I miss working with people my age who all liked to go out and grab a drink afterward. I miss the excitement of the dinner rush and the elation when it ends.
Maybe I could do it again. Just a couple nights a week, after my full-time gig, of course. Just through the fall and winter months when the place is packed. I just want a few regulars again. The rich ones who leave me big tips and don’t yak my ear off about their mundane lives. The ones that never complain about the temperature of their meat and don’t require sixteen water refills. The ones without kids under the age of 16.
OK, so maybe I didn’t love everything about serving. After the Olive Garden, I went to work at a bar so I wouldn’t have to clean up after kids anymore. I had it. I didn’t want to work anywhere that provided crayons, bibs, or high chairs.
And tonight, over carbs, Steve and I discussed how our desire to reproduce is waning with each continued year of marriage. We have each other, what else do we need? But then again, we always want something else. No matter how content we are, we will always contemplate little fantasies, however mundane: like putting an apron on again and giving your right hand carpal tunnel.
Could contentment ever really exist? Because if it did, what would we have to look forward to?