Dining Alone

a practice

I distinctly remember lying on a hotel bed in Charleston, frustrated by my hopeless romantic nature that made me loathe my single-ness in my late twenties. Every fiber of my being was sad, and all I wanted to do was my usual—drive to the local Whole Foods and pick up a box of hot bar food to eat in bed. But, something urged me to consider something bigger. For several years I had been traveling solo, driving to New York City, Charleston, towns all over Connecticut, and I had yet to truly dine alone. Yes, I have had many daytime meals at cafes across the tri-state area, but it’s easier to be alone during the day. The heavier lift is in the evening, when the air is sultry and silky, and our bodies are filled with the anticipation of mystery and romance. When anything can happen, and lustrous stories are woven from the dusk. I realized that it was within these anticipatory fantasies of the night that I was intimidated. I was waiting for the magic—for that perfect date, the perfect restaurant, the romantic tale.

It was that night in Charleston that I realized that I couldn’t wait any longer. I had to take myself out to dinner. I peeled myself off the bed, pulled my hair back into a chignon, and put on my nice silk shirt with the flower detail at the shoulders. I painted my lips in a bold red, because if I was doing this, I was going to do it in full color. No hiding. I would proudly sit to dinner with my beautiful self. I went on a solo date to one of my favorites, Leon’s Oyster Shop, and sat at the bar. The bartender recommended a citrusy cocktail, and I ordered my regular—siam salad, fried chicken, and of course, oysters. And when I could no longer eat, I packed the remainder of fried chicken to go, smiling ear-to-ear.

It was a beautiful night. As I walked back to my car, the palmetto trees rustling in the warm wind and dancing across my skin, I felt full not only in my belly, but in my heart. I am my best company, and this is a love letter to myself.