What would life be like without it? Without the rush? Without the adrenaline flow that went from toes to brain and back again? Without the crazy feelings of losing control of mind and body, only to regain cool minutes later. I was hooked. But if I was gonna quit, now was as good a time as any.

I started out the morning like any other. Shower, coffee, newspaper, the works. I hopped on my bike and rode down the street. As I entered the building panic set in. I tried to speak but my voice had vanished. My hands started shaking and my mind spun. I wanted to sit but found myself pacing the floor in a mad waltz. My eyes rolled and my brain reeled. At a nearby table I saw a friendly, familiar face and told him of my panic. He soothed me and assured me it was not the end of the world. Talking me down he told me to just walk away. And I did. "I can't do this anymore! I'm quitting!" I shouted to whoever could hear me. I hopped back on my bike and rode towards home.

I was giddy with the decision. I rode down the alley, laughing and whooping out loud. For ten years I had been hooked and now with two simple declarative sentences I was done. I warned myself that the euphoria would not last forever but I sure was gonna ride it now! I knew the only way to take it was one day at a time. And I have. For a whole year now.

My name is Bernadette and I am a recovering waitress. Yes, I miss the instant gratification of cash at the end of every shift. Yes, I miss the dance of an overflowing restaurant singing and moving like a Broadway musical. Yes, I miss the captive audience that sat at my feet ready and waiting for every pun and one-liner I could deliver. They laughed, they cried, I was the feel-good waitress of the year! I miss the table of beers with which I rewarded myself for a hundred-dollar day. I miss the table of beers with which I consoled myself for a forty-dollar day. Sometimes I even miss being called Miss.

I don't miss the all-natural, unintentional tie-dye of my uniform shirt and apron. I don't miss the acrid smell which covered me after serving, spilling and stirring food and drink for eight hours. I don't miss the cynicism which compounded daily. I don't miss smiling for and serving food to the general public. Keep in mind that the general public includes drunks, idiots, fools and other character types who are not particularly palatable and far from pleasant to wait on. They are not the majority, but even in the minority these people take up more space, time and energy than all the good folks combined. It is these drunks, idiots and fools whom I want to thank. They are, after all, responsible for my timely demise.

In the beginning of this life of fast customers and faster turnover I felt like the luckiest person in the world. I could work three days a week and get by. I worked when I wanted and lazed when I liked. I pitied the poor souls who hadn't yet picked up on this wonderful, wacky, make-your-own-schedule way of life. I couldn't understand how they could fail to see the light. It took a few years to realize this was the same light that I now found quite blinding.

I had become a good waitress. When I first started I had longed to hear compliments on my service. Now the words made me cringe. I don't want to be a good waitress! I want to be a so-so waitress because I'm so busy thinking about my other life. I hadn't realized that over the years this had become my only life. The longer I waited, the longer I waited. I found myself filled with good old New Jersey sarcasm. "What do you do?" people would ask as I took their order. What the hell does it look like I do? I wait tables!

Already at age thirty I felt somewhat of a dinosaur in the business. Anywhere from late teens to twenties seemed the norm. I imagined the whispers among my just-past-teen-age, fresh-faced, not-yet-cynical fellow waiters. "I'll never be waiting tables when I'm thirty."

The sorry excuse that I was here until I could save enough money to go back to school or until my trust fund kicked in no longer cut it. If I hadn't saved enough for school in ten years, I probably wasn't all that interested to begin with. And being the eighth of nine children put the kibosh on the trust fund idea.

So I quit. With only one letter difference between writer and waiter, I found the line was becoming too fine. I made a bit of money here and there with my Writing and my cartoons. All that was hobby before. Now I am striving to make it my livelihood. My dear friend Spike assures me it is possible. I'm not superstitious but I've had my fingers crossed for a year.

Bernadette Noll is a freelance writer based in Austin, Texas. On being a full-time writer, she says, "My life is forever colored by ten years in the restaurant business. It's always in the back of my mind that there is only one letter difference between writer and waiter."