"It will be out in just a moment," I said, handing the man his change. It was around nine at night, and the rest of the restaurant was blessedly empty. I was off in thirty minutes and impatient to get home.

The man took his change but didn't move. "You have a great smile," he said, eyes glued to my face. I thanked him and started to turn around to get his fries, but he spoke again. "And your eyes are really beautiful."

"Thanks . . ." I said again, more hesitantly this time. He was older, at least in his sixties, and the way he looked at me made my skin crawl. But he didn't stop there, instead breaking down every aspect of my face like I was some kind of insect under a magnifying glass: he commented on my eyebrows, my nose, the mole above my lip. I turned around to see if any of my coworkers were listening, but they were all in the back.

When he finally stopped talking I smiled tightly before turning around to get his order together. When I handed it to him I didn't smile or make eye contact but, because I had to, said "have a good night." Apparently that was enough, because he still grinned and called me a 'good girl,' before finally leaving.

Dealing with difficult people is just part of working in fast food. There's always impatient middle-aged women, irrationally angry guys who get really worked up about how much ice is in their cup, people who talk down to you just because they can. Most of those people are just funny, in all honesty. After a fifty year-old woman screams at you and flicks you off for someone else taking her order incorrectly, you learn not to take the animosity personally.

The creepy, unsolicited comments are different, though, more invasive. Every girl I've ever talked to has experienced the same thing: their appearances broken down and evaluated by men twice their age, the boys who won't take no for an answer when they ask for your number in the drive-through, the degrading calls of "good girl" and "sweetheart" when you're just doing your job.

Once in a while, I can buy the idea that some of the men that do this kind of thing aren't aware of what they're doing, that they're mistaking my 'customer service' voice for genuine interest. That doesn't make it okay by any stretch of the imagination but at least I can believe that it's not as malicious. Most of the time, however, I think they know exactly what they're doing.

So, just for the record, the women serving you at restaurants or greeting you at stores or interacting with you in any professional capacity don't want to hear your thoughts on our appearances. We don't want you to call us degrading names. Our job is to be nice to you, so don't misunderstand that for an open invitation or interest in anything about you. Learn to control yourselves and be respectful because, in all honesty, I'm not getting paid enough to put up with this.