Through high school and college, I was a lunchlady at an exclusive Catholic boarding school in my hometown. I stood behind a stainless steel counter, under the hot lights of the serving line, doling out pizza, wiping down tables, and forming a harsh class consciousness that still hasn’t left me. I don’t remember the physical work so much as the bleak feeling that I wouldn’t amount to much, starting as I was from a financially meager and connection-less spot. Ten years later, the fear of somehow getting dropped back into that job persists: I periodically picture myself in a hairnet, making $5.50 an hour, weeping into the beef stroganoff.Possibly I like the image of weeping into beef stroganoff a bit too much. I also worked in a kitchen, but that wasn't the worst job. While I was in college, I had a job cleaning the bathrooms in my dorm on the weekend as well as a job with developmentally disabled adults that involved catheters. It's hard to choose between those two.