I have so many mixed feelings about eating alone these days.
When I was younger, willingness to eat alone or see movies alone or go to a bar alone felt like a badass badge of honor. And I collected those.
But now that I’m separated, eating alone feels sad. It’s a poignant reminder that I was left. This wasn’t my choice.
Because, you see, I love eating out. I love being served a meal. I am respectful and I tip well, but there is something delicious about eating in a restaurant. And I don’t mean high falutin’ fancy restaurants. Diners are just fine by me. Or the Chinese restaurant and take out place I’m at now.
There are so many troupes about eating alone. I used to entertain myself when eating or drinking alone — journaling, reading … Or, you know, writing this blog post.
But I find myself just wanting to sit and take everything in. It feels both sad and refreshing. My brain is overloaded and I cannot add one more thing. My mindfulness training is coming into play too – noticing the sights, sounds, and smells.
It’s also an acknowledgement that I AM ALONE. I am still getting used to that idea and it makes me sad.
I loved being married. It made me feel safe and secure. And now I’m thrown into a hurricane and I’ve lost all my bearings.
But I guess that’s where the simple pleasures of life – food – and particularly modern life – restaurants – come into play.
One foot in front of the other.
Plate to mouth.
That’s how we survive.
