Yes, I eat alone.
Megnut directed me to this interesting thing. Oddly enough, I didn’t know I was supposed to be embarrased or ashamed of eating out alone. Momma was more focused on teaching me to chew with my mouth closed and not use the sleeve of my hoodie as a napkin.
Okay, so it’s not like I’m eating at The French Laundry (remind me to tell you about the amusing incident involving running through their garden at 1am with the Yountville Police on our tails) or The Waiter‘s Place. And when the nice people at Sckavone’s say, “Sit anywhere,” I’m not rude enough to take a 4 top (unless it’s dead empty on a Sunday afternoon and I want to sit in a booth and it’s the booth next to the kitchen anyway). And I tip an extra 5% when I eat alone.
I think this is an aspect of the media pushing relationships. Name one sit-com character over the age of 15 who is single and not looking.
(I was about to say “Name one television character who is single and not looking”, but then my brain said Jack Bauer, and I said, “That’s cheating! He’s too busy saving the world!”)
I’ve eaten alone on three continents. I enjoy it. If I want to be sociable, I find a place that had bar dining, and if my co-consumers don’t want to talk, the bar staff talks to me. If I don’t want to be sociable, I head for the main dining room, stuff my nose in a book and drink mass quantities of caffeine (and say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’, which many of the people dining in groups don’t. Because they are jerks and I am sweetness and innocence and light).
If my eating alone offends your delicate sensibilities, stay home.
(I also go to movies alone, and don’t have to share my popcorn. Ha ha!)