Shopping for beach vacations and looking all the beautiful couples featured therein has me bracing.
"Just one tonight?" I imagine the maitre'd asking.
Yay, it can count. Yes, motherfucker. Same as last night. And he'll grimace and sadly shake his head, and then he'll show me to the shit table scarcely bigger than my plate, next to the server station.
I will read. Reading in a restaurant is one of my favorite activities ever. More booze, more food, please! Note the absence of "more you." Yet someone will feel compelled to fill the void and chat me up. They doubtless think they're doing me a courtesy by noticing my solitary state and alleviating it with their company. Meanwhile, I will nod my head politely as I google what the penalty is in this country for stabbing a chatty waiter with a soup spoon.
The worst such vacation was after a breakup. I'd booked and paid for a bed and breakfast, and darn it, no breakup was going to stop me from using it. This was an excruciating exercise. It was car shopping after losing your license. It was going to the prime rib buffet after your lap-band.
I weathered the doilies and floral arrangements and the his and hers slippers, but each made me feel just a little more the abject failure. Then I walked into the communal kitchen and I saw the whiteboard. There, in our host's lovely cursive, was my monument to futility.
