So tonight, I ate a meal alone. Hate doing it, hate eating in public- but after meeting a friend for dinner, this person had an emergency and I had to sit at a table and decide whether on not I’d eat the meal I’d ordered.
Do I leave? I wondered- watching the tables nearby.
I should leave, I thought. If not, I’ll be that sad girl in the corner eating alone.
People will watch, I reckoned. They’ll watch and they’ll think to themselves “poor thing is just stuffing herself alone.”
I sipped my wine.
What would it be like to eat a meal alone? I’d never done it.
Sure, I’d gone to a movie in college alone (once)– but to be fair, I’d snuck out halfway through (I mean, Gulliver’s Travels, REALLY JACK BLACK… Not your finest choice)
But a meal?
I’d binge ate alone, definitely. I’d snuck food in the crevices of my armpits– sure.
But to actually eat a meal? No.
It was pressure I didn’t want.
But in a way, it was the pressure I knew I needed.
Why write about recovery if I’m not willing to push the limits of it?
And it wasn’t comfortable, sitting there letting the waiter tend to me. In fact, it felt unnatural (she left the table set on the other end)- but towards the end of it– once the pressure ceased- and I realized people around me were simply just living their lives unbeknownst to me (WAIT- I’m NOT the most important thing since sliced bread?)
I walked away knowing it’s possible- and life still keeps going. Sweet potato fries, wine, salad, and all.
Try it sometime- that’s my tip- you might be surprised.