Sunday Brunch ain’t nothing to f@#k with. After earning my bones serving brunch to the hungover masses, I still have the occasional flashback.
To this day, when I have a dream about working the floor, it happens in the first restaurant I ever waited tables in. It probably doesn’t help that my first waiting tables job was brunch – and not a serene ‘bring your grandma to get scones’ brunch, but a ‘the whole freaking neighborhood rolls in after having woken up on their bathroom floor after a night of heavy drinking’ brunch. It didn’t help that I was up drinking all night too.
It’s not just dreams – I get triggered by the smell of burning toast. The sight of a shirred egg makes my left eye twitch. My mouth goes dry at the thought of orange juice concentrate being cut with locally grown “prosecco.” Clearly, I’m dealing with Brunch Traumatic Stress Disorder.
As a public service announcement, here are the top signs you (or someone you know) has BTSD:
1. This gif is seriously stressing you out.
2. You think bacon is a condiment.
3. When asked how long anything will take you reflexively reply “45 minutes!” and laugh like a lunatic.
4. You’re still waiting for Gatorade to release a coffee flavor.
5. You free-associate construction workers with decaf.
6. You can walk from one end of a dance floor while holding 5 drinks to the other without spilling a precious drop.
7. You think this image is of a coffee stain.
