Keep away from open flame...

The amount of suffering you undergo in a job relates directly to the amount of polyester in the uniform. I learned this the hard way.

At 14 years old, I worked the counter at McDonald's and my uniform rendered me flammable. The only natural fibers permitted to touch my body were contained in my underpants - the rest of my required uniform was durable enough to act as insulation for condominiums and or space shuttles.

I wore a green visor on my head, resplendent with the yellow golden arches. My shirt was short-sleeved (polyester of course) with green stripes and the letter 'M' for buttons. I fastened a polyester tie around my neck, which hung in the shape of the arches and required me to button my polyester shirt to the very top. The tie was green.

Dedicated McDonald's employees were permitted to demonstrate their personalities through the wearing of McDonald's issued pins on their ties, awarded for good service. Largely the pins were awarded to employees who managed to go at least three weeks without burning themselves on the fry grease and needing to take time off.

My McDonald's issue pants were black, and could double as a bra in case of some sudden boob emergency - which is to say they were high-waisted. The extra real-estate the pants provided by coming up right under my plastic name badge was made up for by the lack of pants around my ankles - which is to say they were short.

The McDonald's pants were also polyester, and I was fascinated by the fact that any liquid sloshed on my pants during the course of my shift would actually bead. I've spent a ridiculous amount of money on rain jackets that could not repel water in the same way as those pants.

In case my pants ever slipped, I had a canvas snap-on belt with a golden 'M' on the buckle. I'm still not sure on the rationale for the belt, because my pants weren't going anywhere. They were just too high. After sitting for my breaks, the buckle left a red mark in my skin, halfway between my belly button and my flat chest...which coincidentally is just as flat now. Thanks puberty, thanks for nothing.

Taking breaks were a tricky business. If the managers caught you punching your time card after using the washroom or purchasing your 50% discounted meal, there would be hell to pay. You definitely weren't earning any pins for your tie, and would have to give up most of your break for a lecture on loyalty and ethics. If you got away with it, you bought three minutes of your break back - which was well worth it.

Every manager had a reputation that precluded any gray areas to his personality. He was either good or evil, or in one case was either stoned or knocking up your 15 year-old classmate in the laundry room. To this day I have no idea how he got her pants off in the short time our breaks allowed.

I wore the visor for a year, and I vowed I would never work in food-services again. I've kept that vow. Even when all of my friends were making fabulous tips waitressing, I refused because it would have meant working in the restaurant industry and I couldn't bring myself to do it.

While wearing my polyester I was severely scalded, yelled at by drunken customers, forced to clean up puke in the parking lot and locked in the meat freezer by accident. Strangely, my despite keeping me roasting the rest of the time my polyester uniform did not retain heat as I waited for rescue.

I suffered in that job, but I took one thing away from it. I am always, always without fail, kind to the kids across the counter. I don't care how badly they screw up my order - I understand where they're coming from.