I grew up on movies where the person eating alone was the sad one.
The woman at the bar by herself was a punchline, or a cautionary tale. So the first time I ever ate by myself at a restaurant, I did what I thought you were supposed to do: I brought my phone and stayed on it the entire time, as if I needed to look busy to justify being there.
But since that first glass of champagne in a small East London restaurant, here’s what I’ve learned: eating alone isn’t sad at all.
It’s just been given a stereotype.
Somewhere along the way, we decided that being by yourself in public must mean something has gone wrong. I know folks that will offer up a reason for it ALL the time.
“Well, maybe they’re just traveling for work.”
As if a woman sitting alone with a glass of wine needs an explanation.
But I think it goes deeper than dining. A lot of people aren’t just afraid to eat alone. They’re afraid to be out in the world and simply exist by themselves.
And of course, life is more fun with the people you love. But sometimes that isn’t possible.
And I realized that if I waited for someone to join me every single time, I would never do anything I wanted to do.
That might sound a little bullish. But it’s true.
It’s true when you go to a music festival by yourself, like I did last week. And it’s true when you move to a new city alone, like I did yesterday. Even if you know a few people there, you’re still doing it alone.
You’re not waiting for someone to make it okay, or to give you permission.
So, slowly, a table for one became a ritual.
And what I didn’t expect was that being comfortable alone would turn out to be the very thing that keeps me from feeling alone.
