Alone

I went to Marix Tex Mex tonight, just now, actually. I got there at 6:30, armed with just my Kindle and my wallet, no phone. Just me and my toy and the elements. I wanted a margarita and I wanted chips and I wanted rice and I wanted Barbacoa. And for a moment I thought of the people in my life who I've been trying to catch up with. A work associate here, a friend of an ex there, a really good friend who I always mean to check in with--and I thought about the quick, non-obtrusive text I might send to see what they're up to and if they'd like to meet me NOW for a quick trip down tequilla lane.

But those texts, saying "meet me NOW for tacos" always make a person look selfish, too impulsive, too my-way-or-the-highway. I sent them anyway, because what if they saw me out and wondered what the fuck I was doing alone? Then I'd be alone forever and not by choice. I'd just be a dick and a shrew. Dick and a shrew, a memoir, by Sean Hetherington.

I go out alone all the time. When you grow up fat, you learn to be alone, especially with food. It's safer than watching someone feign non-judgement over your two Whoppers with cheese, large fries, and Diet Coke.

When I sat down with my Kindle to finish Celebrity Detox, the woman next to me said to her boyfriend, "Aww, how sad." And I smiled at them. It made them uncomfortable, that I heard them silently pray for me. A boy looked up from the bar and gave me the "I'll come sit with you, Baby" look. I shot him back the "My first name ain't baby. It's Janet, Miss Jackson if you're nasty" look, and returned to Rosie.

But the truth is, I love being alone. Maybe it's because I have a blog and a Facebook and a Twitter and two dogs that I never feel like I get enough alone time. I shower for 45 minutes sometimes to be singular. I sit in my car for 5 minutes or so when I pull into my garage. I don't do it to cry. I do it to feel myself. I love it.

I feel sorry for people who can't be alone, who can't see a movie solo or grab dinner by their lonesome without feeling incomplete, because to me it says "I don't like me." I don't feel sorry enough to want to call them or anything. It's tough love. "She'll have to just learn," I think of a particular lady friend. "And I send her a text suggesting a trip to the eyebrow waxer.

I don't love me. And that's my constant struggle. I overspend, under earn, under eat, overeat, and spend hours worrying that I'll be in plane crashes. But I do like me. I crack myself up with innappropriate humor. I think I'm absolutely genius at selecting books to read. My writing is introspective and deeper than most of the people I run into on a day to day basis so I trust myself to feel the truth and articulate it to remain level. I'm a feminist. And I have good taste in TV. Oh, and I'm a wonderful dog owner. There are good parts to me, So I like spending time with myself. I also like the way I beat off. I know exactly where to hit it. I'm a soldjuh like that.

With people I feel a lot of highs and lows. Alone, I'm even. My life in the last year has taken on a centered tone, a bubble-in-the-center quality. It's rare that I'm sad, hopeless, angry, overjoyed, or ecstatic like I had been. I'm comfortable.

And it's a powerful feeling--a king-on-a-throne kind of feeling to be alone, concentrated on a book with Cascada playing in the background, while shoveling hydrogenated chips and buttery spanish rice into my piehole and know that Fridays were not meant for conversation about Sandra Bullock or health care or the elasticity of my ass this week, for me. Instead, it's about beating the rush and making it home in time to watch Bill Maher, and then fall asleep, typing to you, the unknown cyberspacer who make me feel so very not alone.