That's A Pretty Tight Knot

My name is S and I wear an apron for a living.

It occurred to me recently that pretty much every job I have had for the past 17 years has, in some way or another, involved an apron. Over-the-shoulder, around the waist, around the neck (similar to a noose), green, black, or blue (heck, even rainbow!), they all symbolize the same thing: I am a machine and I am here to serve you. You know, like Rosie from The Jetsons. "Yes, Mr. Jetson." "Right away, Mr. Jetson." Once in a while, if given the opportunity, Rosie will shoot off a wise-ass comment and put Mr. Jetson in his place.

In a sense, I'm like Rosie: full of piss and vinegar, but forced to do her job because she's programmed that way. The past 17 years -- and counting -- has taught me one thing: I'm programmed to wear an apron. There's just no escaping it.

Customer service has its virtues, don't get me wrong; you know, the same way diving in dumpsters has its virtues (people have found money in garbage cans!), or cleaning septic tanks for a living (hey, those guys make pretty good money). But there's nothing like walking through the door of your place of employment, slipping that apron on like a vise, and swiftly tying a knot the way a cop slaps on the cuffs -- strangely titillating, but ultimately a badge of confinement.

Up to this point I have been a Sandwich Maker, a Bartender, a Barista, a Bookseller, and a Busboy. These jobs, mind you, were not flashes in the pan. 17 years, people! I spent considerable time honing each skill, the way an old man hones whittling a tree limb; I mastered the art but wasn't left with much to brag about.

I should have understood my lot in life when, one time at work, I tried to untie my apron (like a layer of filth, there's just no getting it off quick enough). It was stuck. The knot was too tight. I yanked at it, even had a co-worker give it a go. "That's a pretty tight knot," she said cryptically. Having looped it through my belt to keep it from falling down (a trick us apron-wearers learned back when the wheel was invented), there was no getting it off until I got home. I had to walk around in the damn thing like a scarlet letter. Because I was low on gas, I was forced to make a stop wearing it.

"On your way to work?" the guy behind the gas station counter said.

"No, on my way home," I answered.

"What do you have your apron on for?" he said comically.

Had I not been exhausted, I would have gladly cursed him and thrown my Big Gulp in his face. But I was thirsty and I had, by that time, accepted that my apron was a part of me, like my freckles, or my penchant for pessimism -- it would take more than simply untying the knot to rid me of my apron-wearing stigma.