The summer I was 20 years old, I worked as a maid at the Sahara Tahoe Hotel and Casino. My uniform consisted of an orange-and-blue plaid smock like those worn by pretzel vendors at major league football games. The smock was matched with a pair of dark blue polyester pants with a thick elastic waistband and crotch that hung to mid-thigh. It was a uniform custom fit for pregnant maids, or maids with extremely short legs. I was neither.

If I rolled up the waistband to adjust the crotch, the pants rose to mid-calf exposing white legs and short dark socks. If I left the waistband as it was, the long crotch caused me to walk as if I had braces on my legs. In retrospect, I realize the job was one of those life-changing events that woke me up to the value of a college education. But at the time, I was too distracted by envy.

You see, I had applied at the hotel along with a number of women I knew from college. After my application was processed, I was handed a pair of yellow rubber gloves and instructed on the importance of creating triangular "courtesy folds" on the rolls of toilet paper in each guest bathroom.

"At the Sahara Tahoe, these details matter," the trainer explained with an earnestness that far outstripped the subject matter.

Two of my friends, however, were granted vastly different assignments. One, a blonde beauty straight off the set of a 1940