You are 18 years old, and you just got your first job. You’ve only been working for a week, and you still haven’t gotten your sea-legs. You still move in slow motion, taking care of every meticulous motion and step. You make sure you don’t get chocolate or ketchup on your crisp white apron and shirt. You make sure your bowtie is fitted properly under your collar. You take the orders of the hungry, ravenous customers, and your hand shakes as you write, stuttering while you list our five cheeses.

“We have, um, Cheddar, American, Swiss, um, Cheddar, Pepper Jack, and one more… oh! Provolone.” You look at the woman, who is contemplating the cheese she wants on her Philly Cheese Steak, and her child starts to fuss. She yells at her child, but the fussing increases. Great, now she’s cranky, you think. The woman quickly picks her cheese and sends you away with a wave of her hand as she screams at her child, and it echos across the tile floor.

“Hi! Welcome to Johnny Rockets!” Your coworker calls from across the restaurant.

“Hi! Welcome!” You echo robotically—you are officially a corporate counterpart to a larger body of individuals.

People march through the doors, like the Spartans. You watch the tables and sections fill up, like the water in a tub after the drain was plugged. Suddenly you are overwhelmed. You are drowning in the Cokes you have to pour your customers. The thickness of the milkshakes you are delivering is clogging your lungs. The breath you took was too deep, and now you’re sinking to the bottom of the fryer, along with the fries that missed the basket, tossed into their doom with haste.

Your tables are occupied. You have a party of seven teenage girls. They all say the same thing, “I’ll take a water, chicken tenders and fries,” and they will go back to their world of texting and Facebook. Another one of your tables have a family of four, and the man that is the leader of the pack has his eyebrows furrowed and a scowl etched across his lips before he even sits down. You have a couple—they seem nice. And your final table is two women and a baby girl.

You take all four orders, and you feel you’ve already fallen behind. Panic starts to rise in your chest and for the first time ever, you feel a boat has been built under your feet and you float for a moment. You find your sea legs. You are in hyperdrive, and you deliver the drinks with ease. You can’t ask for the manager's help because you are understaffed. She’s taking tables, too. You feel the heat radiating off the hot oil when you drop countless orders of fries and onion rings. It sticks your bangs to your forehead, under your stupid sailor hat.

There is a person at the to-go counter demanding attention. You give in and take their order. Your boat cracks. Suddenly you’ve hit the iceberg that threatens to bring your ship under the cold soda ocean. It begins to soak your nonslip shoes. Your tables start to yell.

They are talking to each other, “She’s so bad, why does she have this job.”

“It takes two hours to get a soda, but I bet when we ask for the check it will get here in three seconds.”

“She should be fired.”

You’re standing right in front of them. The woman looks you in the eye and says, “How do you have this job still?” Suddenly your ship breaks in half—there isn’t even a board for you to hang on to. You lose the one timber of hope that keeps you afloat. Tears add to the ocean you’re already drowning in. You run to the back out of embarrassment, ready to quit your first job, before your sea legs even got a chance to solidify.

You’re 22 years old. You just got your little sister her first job. You are the manager of Johnny Rockets. You see your sister run to the back in hysterics, and you can do absolutely nothing about it.