I am becoming comfortable with eating alone again.
Last night, I had dinner alone in an Italian Restaurant. I wanted to try their carbonara.
Years ago, I read a recipe for Pasta Carbonara in the New York Times. I lived in a new house, a four bedroom home in Cloverdale in Northern California with my three dogs and parrot. It was a beautiful suburban home with a kitchen garden, fountains, and lights in the backyard. I bought the lot and plans unseen. I knew it was a good deal. I picked out the Spanish tile for the kitchen and dining room. My furniture was ordered and delivered from Pottery Barn. I designed the gardens and put Art on the walls.
I spent almost all of my meals alone except for the occasional family guest or friend who visited sporadically over the two years I lived there, later leaving the house to buy my farm for my horse Reanna, who I met and bought earlier when I was stung with the horse bug.
I spent days in the suburban house kitchen perfecting the recipe for the pasta using parsley that I planted near the faucet in my backyard. The parsley loved living near the faucet. I still haven’t tasted parsley like the fragrant rich herb that grew for me in Cloverdale.
The pasta last night was good, but not mine. The wine was okay, not great. The best part of the dinner was I didn’t get hit by grief. I thought about Scott and smiled with good memories and I enjoyed my dinner alone.
Of course I miss Scott. I loved eating out with him. When we ate at home or out in public, we always sat next to each other, our legs touching, sometimes my hand resting on his thigh. We never sat across from each other, unless it was impossible to sit close. Rarely did we look at our cellphones unless we were searching for information to plan something together.
Last night, eating out alone, was the first time I enjoyed my solo company. I glanced at my cellphone. The rest of the time I savored my meal out and my own thoughts.
I remember eating out alone in my twenties when I first ventured out solo dining. My hands tied in knots in my lap, anxiety raising, I would race through my meal barely tasting what was on my plate.
I kept at it. I had a feeling I would be single most of my life. I love food. I love cafes. I love going out. I love travel. I didn’t want to eat over the sink like some singles. I didn’t want to eat alone in an hotel staring at four walls. I didn’t want to miss this part of my life. So, I kept at it with a journal or book on the table to keep me company.
My celebration and break through was in my thirties, sitting down for an indulgent six course extravagant meal at a French Restaurant. It was impossible to rush through.
I don’t know if I am going to remain single the rest of my life since Scott has crossed over. I have a strong feeling I probably will. I have no desire for a partner and I enjoy my time alone.
No matter how painful and uncomfortable losing Scott is, I am going to keep pushing forward and living my life, doing the things I enjoyed before Scott, with Scott, and now without him.