Table For One

This article is about to drop in the Wesleyan Arr-gus soon. Think of this as the sneak peek--obsessed Cato fans (all 3 of you--and yes I included myself and my stuffed animal). The title: Table For One.

I have a lot of pet peeves but no tic is more aggravating than the single-table pity look. Ever since I started working in the city, my lunches have gotten lonelier and now my most frequently used phrase at restaurants is “Table for one.” And instead of a smile and a “Right this way, sir”, all I get from the host is the slightly-tilted head, the sigh and the “Oh just one?” (Why do hosts say this, do they really think I don’t know the size of my own party?). Then comes the look—all narrowed eyes and furrowed brows and tiny O-shaped mouth. I truly despise that look. It makes me want to hit something—really hard.

Now I’ve received the glance but the shaming doesn’t end with the host. En route to my seat, I have to pull a walk of shame down an aisle of tables of twos, threes, fours, and even fives. And I get the pity stare from every single one of the patrons. I feel transformed into that fat kid with Coke-bottle glasses no would sit with at recess. If you think eating alone at MoCon is a fate worse than death, you are living in a bubble.

Lately, I want to give the illusion of the table as being filled. I place my bag on the chair opposite me and cover the table top with things—books, notepads, pens. Sometimes it works; some people think I’m a studious frazzled grad student. Usually it ends up being a mess when the server comes by with my food. He’s always confused as to where to put my plate once he sees the Library of Congress on my table. I have to haphazardly stack papers and books, nodding and apologizing like a doddering scholar. Some servers look away; others try to help and get greasy fingerprints on my stuff. Either way, the shuffling and clearing is awkward for everyone involved.

The worst places to eat are the ones with the huge bay windows. For some reason (a sadistic lust on the owner’s part, I presume), all the tables for one are located by these transparent windows. Whenever I eat by them, I always feel like I’m a specimen in a zoo, with a caption mounted on a faux-wood placard reading “North American Loser.” I can pretty much hear the thoughts of every person walking by, looking at my dining situation: “Isn’t he a little young to not have any friends?” “That meal looks a little big for him.” “Good Lord, is he having a beer and an omelet for dinner?”

Ostensibly, the solution to my dilemma would be to call up fellow alumni to establish lunch and dinner dates. The idea doesn’t stand up to practicality. While many of my friends work in Manhattan, we are spread so far apart we may as well be in different solar systems. Think about it: you only get an hour-long lunch. Once you take into account travel and order time, you have at best thirty minutes to eat and talk. So if you’re the type of person who’s using to prattling on for hours at Campus Center, well you can forget trying to meet up with your friends. Dinner would be a more viable option but I’m always running around going to networking events or on informal interviews. There is simply no time to have a proper sit-down meal.

I have thought about asking my co-workers to lunch with me but I could never bring myself to do it. It’s not a matter of elitism or ageism; I just don’t have the ability to talk to adults. Any person older than me by at least a year is unapproachable (unless it’s at a bar, and even then, conversation is still shaky). I get all blubbery and awkward and I’m never sure of what I can say. I can’t talk to them about my problems, which at this point revolve around landing a better job and jump-starting my entertainment career.

Besides, my adult employees all have problems a generation removed from me. I can’t relate to their complaints about 401(k) plans or mortgages or kids keeping them up until all hours of the morning. I still live with my parents; I don’t even pay my own cell phone bills. And the only times I pull all-nighters these days are when I have to write these articles (just kidding!).

So I eat alone, but it isn’t all bad. Instead of moping about, I use the time to catch up on your summer reading or take notes on the wacky couple across the aisle. I savor my food and my me-time, a luxury I never knew I’d enjoy so much.

For those of you who dine out alone, I raise my forks in salute. And for the segment of the Wesleyan population who have not experienced the solitary repast, you’d better do it soon. After graduation, your dining circle will shrink exponentially. You may find yourself at an Applebee’s getting a cheeseburger and chicken salad and eating the whole thing by yourself.

The pity look still irks me to no end. But now, I’m prepared for a retort. If I get another host with the narrowed eyes asking “Oh just one?”, I’ll say “No. Actually it’s a table for 100, one for each of my homicidal personalities.” And then we’ll see what face he gives me.