“Hi.”
The 20-something man approached my table, the corner of his mouth curving up. He looked away and rubbed his chin before making eye contact and telling me: “I just wanted you to know that if you’d come in sooner, my girlfriend and I would’ve invited you to join us.”
I smiled at him. It was nice of him to want to create community with me, although I was perfectly happy just as I was. But he wasn’t quite finished.
“I feel really bad for you,” he said. “You look so lonely.”
Those four words sat like rocks in my knotted stomach. I’ve heard them often throughout my life.
“Thank you. I’m not lonely. I’m fine,” I replied, a little too defensively.
I looked away. Jerk. Who walks up to someone to point out they look miserable? His words floated in the room like specks of dust catching the light, mocking me as he left hand in hand with his girlfriend.
Maybe it’s just a checklist inherited from my parents’ “Silent Generation,” but I’ve found that society still measures worth, success,, and happiness in terms of wedding bands and strollers. I’ve lived much of my adult life believing in those metrics, so choosing to be single has been challenging. It doesn’t just mean dealing with the judgment from others — it also means hearing my inner demons repeat those verdicts: You’re less successful, damaged goods, a failure.
As I sat there alone, I told myself it was this guy’s issue, not mine. But the all-too-familiar whispers were getting louder as I looked around the restaurant, a spot my elderly B&B hosts had recommended, their wrinkled eyes twinkling: “The food is great. You’ll love how intimate it is.”
They were right. I loved the place as soon as I walked through its weathered wooden door. “Table for one,” I said, smiling at the hostess. She smiled back warmly as she welcomed me.
When I sat down, the young man who would eventually approach me was looking directly at me, so I smiled at him before perusing the wine list.
This was 23 years ago. I’d recently moved to inland California, and had road-tripped to the coast to explore my new state and drive part of the famed Pacific Coast Highway. I’d been excited about this four-day jaunt, but now all I wanted to do was finish my Riesling and fettuccine Alfredo, pack my bags, and retreat to my small, secluded inland town.
I turned down homemade cannoli and walked, head down, back to the Victorian B&B. I stepped quietly past the den where my hosts sat focused on “Antiques Roadshow,” relieved they hadn’t noticed me come in. I took the stairs two at a time and slipped the key in the door to my room as a lump formed in my throat. Then I collapsed on my bed and cried. I’d let the whispers win.
