The understated, hardworking waiter. Flickr photo by hansvandenberg30
Have I ever explained my wedding/waiter theory?
It’s like the female equivalent of beer goggles.
It starts with the basic 10-point scale, with one being the lower end of who you would date and 10 being the cream of the crop.
So in my books waiters are usually about a five. They are often cute, although not particularly smart or well spoken. I’m not being mean, most waiters my age are aspiring actors or models or something, or they are really young … anyway.
But those waiters that are with catering companies or at hotel banquet halls are used to wedding parties and the unyielding cravings and requests of psycho bridezillas and her handlers – er bridesmaids. So they are really attentive, which means a five quickly becomes a six.
Now as the night wears on, I usually start to realize I am among the last single girls at the party and despite the number of times I explain that it’s by choice, I grow tired of the sympathetic looks. So, I start to think about, well, maybe I should be dating someone. And suddenly that attentive waiter is a little cuter, so say a seven.
Weddings are so good at making us single girls second … um, third, guess our status.
By the time the fourth slow dance is on — during that in between time between the “wedding” ending and the “party” starting — the wait staff is growing as tired as I am. So usually I sneak outside and chat with them in necessity for my sanity. Turns out that waiter? He’s pretty funny … and suddenly an eight.
And when it comes to booze at the wedding, the waiters control the flow of wine. Any man that keeps the alcohol flowing, in a responsible manner (of course), gets a point just in principle. And now he’s nine.
The party starts, I love to dance, so spend most of the night on the dance floor, awkwardly two-stepping with random members of the bridal party, spinning around with actual ballroom dancers, getting my grove on with other girls standing in a circle.
The waiter then usually materializes with water and, just before I leave, they get my coat. Clearly, I’ve under-valued the waiter, he’s clearly at 10 and I’m obviously in love.
I bat my eyes and gush at how awesome the waiter has been for the evening. Then, fortunately the self defense mechanism kicks in — run at the feeling of love.
I go home alone and in the morning wake up, bordering on a hangover, but still, blissfully single.
This theory is also valid at bachelorette parties, where, as the token single girl, you are expected to “get into more trouble” than everyone else … or at least provide the entertainment. I’ll have to tell you about Tony from Texas one day.
Rules for living 