Last night I worked a charity dinner at Tremont 647 to benefit my boss's favorite worthwhile cause: fighting hunger through the hunger relief organization, Share Our Strength. I spent the evening working as a waitress at this event for free.
That means pouring wine for free, refilling endless glasses of water for free, running, smiling, nodding and laughing at bad jokes for free, clearing and bussing course after course for free, and in some cases, being scolded and screamed at by high profile chefs, all out of the goodness of my very own, very charitable heart.
After the guests left with their bellies full and their conscience's aglow, the work was not complete. We had to rack the hundreds of rental plates, glasses, and silverware, sort the rental linens, and clean up the copius amounts of mess we left in the wake of this well-intended hurricane of a benefit. The one benefit we workers reaped for this charitable donation of our time was the privilege of imbibing all the leftover donated wine, beer, and booze we could handle. Because that seems like the cool thing to do on a school night, after having worked fifteen hours already and looking down the barrel of a busy day ahead.
And of course, after sipping free wine from a bottomless coffee mug (so as not to dirty one of the precious wine glasses we were racking to return to Be Our Guest), the obvious next step is to follow all of my friends out to Anchovies once the clock strikes 12:30, instead of heading home to crawl into bed because I have to be up early for work. Eh--What's another hour?
Another really logical decision I made last night was to then follow my stumbling coworkers over to the Beverage Czar's house "for one" before calling it a night, pouring Punk Rock girl in a cab (maybe I should call her Drunk Rock Girl), kissing A-Lo and Chewy goodbye on the cheek, and skipping down the street to arrive at my house at 2:30 in the morning.
What do I feel this morning, as I pat flesh colored makeup over the dark circles under my eyes? Is that a martyrly sigh I heave as I smooth my hair in the mirror, and cross my fingers that I'll be able to feign presentability to my office full of square publishing folk, in spite of my late-night carousing. Is that a vague surge of pride I feel, for a job well done, for so successfully getting my charity on?
No, wait--that's just the beginning murmurs of a dull headache, nipping at the nape of my neck.
As I step out the front door, the birds are singing (when did they get back from the South?), the crossing guards are helping children cross the street (easy on the whistle, I can see your white gloves from here, I'm sure that car right in front of you can, too), and the hustle of commuters is well under way (hey, I'm walking here, you douchebag, I hate to break it to you but pedestrians have the right of way.)
I am assaulted by sunshine (please God let me find my sunglasses???)
The world sure seems like a brighter place when you do something for charity.