Table for One

Last night, the girls went to Grandma's and the husband was working late. I had an enormous jones for Thai food, and I needed to be satiated.

For a brief time, about a year and a half, we lived with my in-laws. We were building our house, and it took quite some time. And when I say we were building it, I mean that my husband dug the foundation, poured the foundation, put up every board and nail, etc. It was, and has been, a labor of love for us.

In any case, during that time, I discovered this excellent, hole-in-the-wall Thai place. I got carry-out from there about three times a week. Those were the good old days when we both were employed and had nothing else to spend our money on. Sigh.

So I had a dilemma last night. The in-laws live about twenty minutes from my house. I thought about the fact that my beloved pad thai would most likely be cold by the time I got it home if I went the carryout route. The veggie egg rolls would be a sad, flaccid mess. So I thought, why not grab myself a People magazine and order up a table for one?

And that's precisely what I did.

From talking to people, eating alone appears to be an issue of some controversy. People are either totally for it, or vehemently against it. I fall into the former category. I don't feel a bit insecure about eating alone. For me, it is all about the food. And if I have to have it, I have to have it, whatever the cost.

Here's the weird part.

When I see others eating alone, I feel an intense sadness for them. There is an extraordinary vulnerability about people when they are eating. And when they are eating alone, it intensifies. I know this sounds weird. But I find it so endearing to watch people eat. To observe their preferences. To see a person appear so delighted and, excited (?) to be tucking into whatever is on the plate. I feel sorry for them, like I feel that they need someone to share it with. I have had to stop myself several times from walking over and inviting a person to sit with me.

When I was on the street, we frequently were assigned to do walk-throughs at the homeless shelter. How it worked was, the shelter was held at a different church, in different towns, each night. My husband used to make fun of me because, not only would I walk through, I would load up a plate with fried chicken and mac and cheese (or whatever they were serving that night), sit down and eat. I'll tell you what, though. They always had the best mac and cheese there. And brownies. I don't know why. But, really, I just liked to sit and watch people. There is something about the simple pleasure of a good meal. For me it was that. Something I undoubtedly have taken for granted. For the homeless people, it was just lucky that they had that to look forward to that night. Because who knew what the next night would bring? I felt grateful for them that, at least for that night, they had somewhere to stay and something good to eat. And I felt fortunate that I didn't have those worries.

The people working the shelter liked it when we would go in there and have something to eat. I think it made the residents feel more at ease, too. Like, we weren't just in there checking up on them to make sure they were behaving themselves.

But, I digress.

My benchmark, or gauge, for how sorry I should feel for someone is whether or not they are wearing a wedding ring. I know, it's wrong to use that as a benchmark. Especially because of the fact that, just because someone is wearing a wedding band does not mean they aren't still lonely. But still, I feel a little lighter in my heart when I see that the solo eater is sporting one. I guess that it's easier for me to reconcile. As in, "Okay. He's eating alone, but he's wearing a wedding ring. So he has someone to go home and talk to, even though there is nobody here with him now."

Why do I feel sad for them? I eat by myself frequently. I go to movies by myself. I don't feel sad. Sometimes I actually feel a little bit liberated, not having any pressure to carry on a conversation if I don't feel like it.

I guess you could say I have a double standard about eating solo.

When I went to the Thai place, I could feel the eyes on me as I responded, "One, please" when the waitress asked me how many were in my party. I wondered if they felt sorry for me the way I have felt sorry for others, at times. I'm sure they wondered, "What's her story?" The way I have wondered that, countless times, about people in restaurants.

It almost makes you feel like you want to wear a T-shirt with a disclaimer every time you go to eat by yourself. It would go something like this, "I am happily married and not lonely. However. I REALLY needed Thai food tonight, and well, my husband isn't home and hates Thai, anyway. So here I am. Please, don't feel sorry for me."

Sort of like when my husband was working afternoons and had the girls during the day. He would take them to Gymboree, the park, etc. He told me he always felt the other mothers looking at him, like, "Doesn't he have a job, or is he some pervert weirdo?" I told him I would make him a button that he could pin on his shirt. It would say, "I am gainfully employed, I just work at night. I'm not a pervert."

Hey, maybe I'm on to something there!