Working in a nightclub, you get your fair share of drunken 30-somethings, desperate for attention and for as much booze as they can get. They hit on you, hit on each other, hit on the wall, eventually hit the floor. But there’s another side to nightclub life that few are familiar with, the side that I typically refer to as the bane of my existence, the reason for my anxiety, the reason for eye-rolling and irritation and hand cramps. And that side is private parties – more specifically, Sweet 16s.
Not that I don’t love to watch a bunch of kids my brother’s age grinding all over each other and making out in the corners, but I mean, come on. They think they’re hot shit. They wear dresses my dad would have murdered me for even attempting to wear. They usually pregame and it’s evident through their sloppiness (clearly they don’t have that college skill). I spend every waking moment – in between running back and forth from the kitchen and weaving my way through grind chains – swearing that when I was sixteen I didn’t look, act, sound, even smell the way they do. I didn’t own “slutty” clothes or drink booze out of red cups – that other side didn’t appear under Slutgers took me under its shady, grimy, basement-party wings. Oh, and don’t forget when they “shoo” the cocktail waitresses away, acting like they’re at some prissy country club sipping martinis and leaving hundred dollar tips. Honey, I can wipe the floor with your scrawny ass, I will spit in your food if I have to, thankyouverymuch. I guess my point is, these kids think they’re actually at a nightclub and pretend to be cool and over-21 and bad-ass and I guess it’s pretty hysterical, albeit irritating as fuck.
That said, I worked a Sweet 16 this Sunday night (yes, I had class the next day; no, I was certainly not a happy camper). The kids weren’t quite as difficult as usual, but clearly the hormones were high. I was one of three cocktail waitresses, running up the same flight of stairs seven trillion times and not-so-gracefully balancing plates of food while walking not-so-gracefully around the dance floor. As is typical, the girls didn’t eat, and there were the three resident boys that ate everything I could possibly send their way. I walked up into the male-dominated section, hoping to get rid of my pigs in a blanket so I could actually sit down in the kitchen for one sweet, sweet, glorious moment. What I received in return was much more than I bargained for:
Me: Hey guys, please take these, I know you want them.
Random hormonal and awkward 16-year-old boy: You.
Me: Yes?
Same hormonal and awkward 16-year-old boy: *giggles with posse, blatantly checking me out*
Me: Can I help you….?
Boy: You. Are. A very. Beautiful. Girl.
Me: *silence*
Boy: *silence, checking out ass, blushes instantly*
Me: Oh okay thank you. *hussle quickly away, suppressing laughter and confusion*
So hey, if you’re looking to get hit on by various 16-year-olds/get a bit of a boost to your self-confidence, maybe this job is right for you. Clearly I got a bit more than I bargained for, but at least I know that kids four years younger than me think I’m sexy…. Are they even old enough to know what sexy is?
Love,
Your resident bartender and apparent hottie-with-a-body