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Training myself to take up space
Long ago, as a teenage waitress scurrying through crowded kitchens and dining rooms, it was my habit to say “sorry” when I needed to pass.
Sorry to my fellow servers, each of us balancing trays of food and cocktails on flower stalk forearms.
Sorry to the earnest, bow-tied busboys with their baskets of bread and carafes of water.
Sorry to the noisy guests in their Sunday clothes, even on Wednesday, as they jostled in the front door and waited their turn at the tables.
Sorry to the busy shouting men in the kitchen.
Always sorry. Never excuse me. Never nothing. Never a thought that it may just be my turn and nothing needed to be said.
An older waitress finally pulled me aside at the back bar and hissed, “What are you sorry about? Why are you always sorry? Stop saying you’re sorry!”
My response: “I’m sorry.”
I was very young then and am not so sorry anymore. I’ve never been an elbows-out sort, but I’m counseling myself to at least claim my turf. Aging is teaching me to take up space.
I had a wild grandmother who took up more than her share of space. She was dramatic and haughty, and demanded the center of the stage at all times. As a young…
