A sigh left me as I stood in line, waiting to pay for yet another pair of black pants and a white button-down shirt. That was the problem with working at a high-end restaurant—the smallest amount of fading, staining, or holes of any kind, and they had to be replaced. I’d seen more than one employee sent home because of it.
I never imagined I would spend more on work clothes than I did on regular clothes, but then again, I didn’t care if my everyday wares were faded or ripped or stained. Okay, I did a little, but how many pairs of jeans with blown out knees did I have? Or tees with holes that I wore until the hole was too big, and often I still would just throw a tank on underneath?
The restaurant where I worked, 130 Degrees, was a place I could never even imagine eating at and was lucky
