When I met my wife, she was working her way through college waiting tables at a Mexican restaurant. I ate there so many times I knew I was going to either win her affection or start my own mariachi band.

I could tell she liked me by the way she brought out extra chips and salsa before I was even running low. As good as I would have looked in silver-studded pants and a giant sombrero, I’m glad we got together.

All these years later, when I’m wondering out loud about how in the world we will ever put our three daughters through college, Sharon tells me not to worry. “They can always wait tables,” she says. “I paid for a lot of college waiting tables.”

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