What do you call a journalist with a tray? A “traynalist”

It’s unbelievable how some people are gifted with both creative and crafting skills. Like my uncle, who made a career out of carpentry, but that didn’t stopped him from earning a Master in Poetry, later in life.

For me, it has always been one or the other. Or so I thought. After three days of being trained as a server for an upscale retirement home, yesterday they finally had me working a full shift.

I was sporting a hair net, while taking a bathroom selfie

Armed with a work badge photo a tad more flattering than a mug shot and just enough confidence not to pass out, I managed to deliver dinner for almost forty hungry, sometimes grumpy residents.

It was, hands down, the hardest and most rewarding experience of my life. 

Most of this success is owed to my supportive colleagues who cheered for me every ten minutes, like I was running a marathon (carrying back and forth a heavy tray, tens of times a day, should become a legitimate type of workout). 

Not everything was perfect.

Running around like a headless chicken made me clumsy and accident-prone. At one point, my left hand was half covered in chocolate frosting, while the other was mildly burned with navy bean soup. The whole serving thing lasted a total of two hours, which seemed like forever. By the time it was over, I was so thirsty that, when nobody was watching, I leaned against the refrigerator door and gulped down a cup of cranberry juice.

Eventually, I got to relax a bit by rolling silverware in paper napkins, before picking up all the salt and pepper shakers. “Thanks for helping me today”, I solemnly said to everyone who was in the break room, just as a doctor would show gratitude to his team after a hard surgery.

They didn’t look too impressed. Instead, two girls assured me that “it was nothing” and “it gets really easy”. Deep inside me, I hope I won’t be around long enough to experience that.