i wish you could see my beautiful tie

This morning I had agreed to sub for a guy I work for occasionally. He runs the catering for the conference rooms at a large financial services firm downtown; people come through with presentations, they sit and watch PowerPoint, I wear a white waiter's jacket that's too large for me and serve lunch as quietly as possible. No, Varla, I wear things besides the jacket, don't even go there. White button-down shirt, black pants, a necktie. Black shoes, black socks.

Anyway, Templar called me in because he needed the day off for a little surgery his daughter is having. So I woke up far earlier than was remotely humane, got myself together, and huffed on over to the Financial District. Yes, I was late. I still haven't gotten the hang of calculating distance from my new place. Which meant I was tying my new subtly floral one-buck-from-Goodwill tie on the move, without a mirror, a purse slung over my left shoulder, and it still came out really nicely.

It's a silly thing to be proud of. But my dad taught me how to do it (I was after all a teenager in the eighties when girls in ties and suit jackets were cute) and it always makes me happy to think of him as I do it. It is a very helpful thing for a waitress to know. While most of the parties I work are tuxedo, we'll sometimes get sent on the floor in the combination known as "bistro" (especially during the summer, especially in the wine country). Bistro is essentially what I just described up top, sans the silly jacket. Which means that there's a flurry of activity in the staff room just before the guest ready mark. A flurry of women struggling to get their ties on.

I end up tying a lot of ties. It's--I'll admit--kind of arousing; some of my coworkers are very hot, and doing this little personal thing flusters me. Adjusting the knot, smoothing the collar down, buttoning the little buttons on the tabs. I can see the little tendrils of hair that have escaped the ponytail or the bun, the sweat from having been out in the sun setting tables while the florists and account executives and lighting guys run around panicking. I can smell cologne, soap, hair gel. I find that I pitch my voice a little lower. Could you lift your hair for me? Excuse me, I'm going to touch your neck for a minute to fix your collar. There. Is that too tight? I finish my fixing and go back to eating staff meal off a styrofoam plate and trying to act blase.

Anyway. I got to the job this morning, and literally three minutes later found out that the lunch I was supposed to be working had been cancelled. The company was going to go ahead and take delivery of the food (feeding it to the analysts, who apparently never leave the building), but there was very little for me to do besides cleaning up after a couple of breakfast meetings. And they have to pay me for five hours. So I'm about to get paid for five hours of work, when I spent one hour clearing tables, running the dishes through the big industrial dishwasher, and neatening up. Oh, and eating one of their scones.

Sometimes there is some mercy in the world. This must be my reward for the hellacious set-up I managed on Saturday, where the tables had been covered with big mirrors so the sun could blind us as we put down silverware and one of my staff nearly collapsed of heat exhaustion (I feel like I'm going to throw up being the operative phrase here). I have the afternoon to get stuff done for my editor, I might make it to two dance classes tonight, and I am not emotionally drained from having to make nice-nice with people who think I'm part of the furniture.

BUT, nobody got a chance to admire my beautiful tie!

Maybe I'll just keep it on for the rest of the day. Sit in my apartment writing in starched shirt and tie.

And socks.