I was 13 years old back in 1988. I know who Flo Jo and Greg Louganis are. I will never misspell potato. I remember President Reagan. I had a crush on Jessica Rabbit. I saw Rattle and Hum on my 13th birthday because it was rated PG-13. My girlfriend taught me to dirty dance, but I my guy friends were more into Def Leppard. I know for sure that Dan Quayle is no Jack Kennedy.
Yet, when I card someone and they were born in 1988, the math says that they are legal to drink. It doesn’t seem like 21 years ago in my head. It seems like a few years at best. It is a sign that I am getting older. When I started serving, 1973 was the magic year. I know this well because being able to convincingly turn a “75” into a “73” on a driver’s license with chalk and a mechanical pencil was worth ten bucks in my dorm. Everytime someone proudly shows me an ID with 1988 on it, my arthritis starts acting up.
The other downside of this long career is that the jokes I used starting out are no longer laughed at by most of my guests. I have retired jokes in the past due to menu changes. I miss serving duck. I never knew how to describe it, so I would often have to wing it. Guests who enjoyed it would never mind it being on their bill, even when I would serve it with a side of quackers.
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