A writer and waitress reflects on how doing manual labor affects your life. Excerpt: "The job I ended up picking was an opening, bougie New American restaurant in the West Village. This is exactly what I wanted, though now I can’t remember why. I guess I thought that a nice restaurant confirmed something about me, my skills, my potential, myself as a person.

The job didn’t start for a few weeks, during which I walked around New York. How lucky I was! I don’t remember the specifics of many of the days—I went to MoMA, ran along the Columbia Street Waterfront, and bought a lot of wine to practice opening wine bottles. I’d drink the whole bottle by myself at night, in my sublet in Carroll Gardens. I lived with a middle-aged couple, married artists, in a pure white room next to the BQE. I had a mattress on the floor, and I’d sit next to it, drinking that wine and thinking about how I’d done it, I’d arrived, but having no idea what came next. I love this girl, and I know that she would love me, who I’ve met and become."