Oh, my achin’ feet

This month marks the 45th anniversary of my debut gig as a waitress.

That first waitress job was at Ted’s Big Boy in Worcester’s Webster Square, where, for two summers and one Christmas break, I happily served up hamburgers and strawberry pie, gabbed with my fellow waitresses, and occasionally flirted with the less unsavory of the cooks, a motley crew that over time included a cynical but wildly entertaining Clark grad who was writing a novel called Eighty-Six that Dream, a couple of jaded Vietnam vets, and at least one ex-con.

The waitress uniform was a brown polyester knee-length skirt, a white polyester pleated shirt, a brown clip on bow tie, and an orange apron. The uniform was provided by Ted’s. We had to supply our own hairnets and shoes – comfy white waitress shoes. Comfy was very useful both for running around all day, and for walking the mile or so back and forth to Big Boy’s.

My next two waitress jobs both required you to provide your own waitress outfit -  a white nylon nurse/waitress dress – and, of course, your own comfy white waitress shoes.  (Providing your own outfit, by the way,  had two immense benefits. Because you could buy yourself more than one, you didn’t have to wash your smelly, greasy, sweaty dress out every night when you got home. Plus you didn’t have to wear something that had been worn to death by someone else.)

Those waitress shoes did double duty, by the way. My roommate and I once climbed to Tuckerman’s Ravine on Mt. Washington wearing them. When a better equipped hiker asked us about them, we told him that they were special Italian walking shoes. So there.

My final waitressing job issued the uniform: a rather fetching bright blue poly sailor dress (barely butt-covering mini), made out of some double-knit fabric that was so stiff  the dress could stand on its own. Again, this was worn with comfy white waitress shoes.

Even with comfy white waitress shoes, my feet always ached when I came home from a day on my feet, and there were plenty of times I soaked those aching feet in a hot water.

I cannot imagine how anyone could work as a waitress wearing anything other than comfy shoes.

Thus, I am in great sympathy with the Foxwoods Casino cocktail waitresses – especially the older gals – who put their aching foot down at the recent edict that they wear two-inch heels while on the job. Their union – Local 371 of the United Food and Commercial Workers Union – has footwear on the list of items its negotiating on behalf of its members:

The casino yielded on a recently imposed requirement for 2-inch heels, but it is insisting that servers wear polishable black shoes, subject to approval by management, according to union representative Keri Hoehne and members. Servers could be exempted with a doctor’s note for up to a year, but would then have to resign or take another position. (Source: Boston.com)

The older waitresses (rightfully, no doubt) feel that all this is Foxwoods’ way of pushing out the older waitresses in favor of sexy young things who might be willing to wear uncomfortable footwear under the (likely correct) assumption that they’d make better tips as sexy young things in spikes than they would as middle-aged women in orthopedic shoes.

Cheryl Haase, at 52, is one of the older gals at Foxwoods.

Haase said she wears black clogs after a doctor urged her to ditch narrow-toed shoes preferred by the casino, but she worries she would have to switch back if the casino has its way.

‘‘After 20 years of being there,’’ she said, ‘‘I can’t wear a shoe that’s angled like that because my foot is too wide for it.’’

Foxwoods, of course, has bigger problems than what shoes its waitresses are wearing. Casino revenues are declining, and will decline even more once Massachusetts gets its casino-ing in gear and our citizens no longer have to bus down to Connecticut to squander their Social Security checks playing the slots.

So, whether shod in fake polishable Manolos heels or in clunky Dansko polishable clogs, the waitresses at Foxwoods may be in for some tough times. (How life can get much tougher for a 52-year-old waitress is hard to imagine, but the worst job is generally better than no job.)

Still, I hope that they prevail in their mission to wear comfy waitress shoes.

Surely, their achin’ feet deserve as much.