Not too long ago, I was stood up for lunch—by another girl. This was a first for me. I sat there drinking my water looking around the restaurant, checking my watch, texting people on my cell phone, and telling the waitress, “My friend should be here any minute. She’s a busy reporter, might have gotten caught up a story, or a deadline. I sure hope she wasn’t in a car wreck.” Half an hour later, I hoped she was in a car wreck—or worse. I slipped out of the booth, thanked the waitress and tried to avoid the eyes of the executives sawing their steaks, ordering the cheesecake, padding their expense accounts. I went straight home and ate a bowl of vegetable soup, while reading T.C. Boyle. I thought that if I had that book with me at the restaurant, I might have stayed for lunch, but I also know I would have eaten much less than if I was seated across from my reporter pal.
I have a friend whose husband travels frequently for business. On one long term assignment, he and his co-worker ate in the same pub for six months. He went there solo one night while the other guy stayed with clients. He greeted the waitress by name, bellied up to the bar, and had a few beers and a burger. When he got his bill he laughed. The waitress had tagged his ticket: barfly1. His co-worker ate there the next night alone and came back with a receipt labeling him: barfly two.
So, maybe that’s what I’m really afraid of if I eat out alone: that I might be labeled. That someone might get the wrong impression of me. Never mind that I’m writing this in the front seat of my car in the parking lot of my daughter’s dance studio, where I have just eaten a bowl of salad from home, washed down with a bottle of water I found under the passenger seat.
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