Birds do it. Bees do it. And if we’re continuing with that theme, even educated flees do it.
I do it. I eat alone.
Yes, in my head all of the above was sung to that tune.
Unlike falling in love, as Ella Fitzgerald puts it, eating alone does not seem to be something we all do. Eating alone requires a certain confidence; a balanced ego, if you will. Of course, if your ego is so large that you become insecure, which is normal so don’t be too worrisome if this is you, then you would never be seen eating alone. If you are this person, then your ego is dependent on what everyone else thinks of you and your sad salad bar creation with maybe some whole grain bread on the side.
There is also an alternative ego: your ego could be what I would like to think is well-sized, so that you are comfortable enough to eat alone without having to tell a passing friend, “Oh, I’m just reading quietly here, getting some ME time!” and push her away when in truth, you just had no one to sit with when you got to the place of eating, the home of said pathetic salad bar, and you’d rather stick with your story than admit your intentions were not solitude and loneliness from the start.
There is an art to eating alone, of course, no matter what size your ego decides to make itself on any day of the week. One must consider where he or she is eating (consider seating arrangements, location of place, type of eatery/cuisine), what he or she is eating, and what he or she is doing, if anything, while eating.
All rules can fly out the window if you decide to throw them there. My dad has two great stories from his high school years. Both involve vomit, but the more hysterical (and perhaps less disgusting) of the two is when he was driving his ‘Stang (hell yeah daddio) and his inebriated friend was riding shotgun, who proceeded to roll down the passenger window and vomit out onto one of the great highways of central Jersey as my father continued driving at 70 miles per hour.
In this fashion, you can throw the etiquette of eating alone out the window.
To do that, though, you must be truly confident, like the tired, middle aged people on lunch break with not a brain cell to spare for catching up on Instagram or reading the Times. Instead, these people eat alone, like so alone that his or her phone is not in plain sight, and they look out the window and make me think, wow, is this my New York life in ten to twenty years?
These people are the exception, though, because they don’t care about eating alone because they don’t think about eating alone. They just eat.
If you are a college freshman, though, you think and care about eating alone. You think and care about eating alone so much that you have group chats with eight girls in them and your conversations, maybe even your friendships, are built from the foundation of sharing meals, eating at the same times, and not being together but rather just not being alone.
To avoid eating alone at any stage of life, one might get “to-go” or “take out” and eat at his or her desk. Whenever I try to do this, whether it’s to save time or to avoid eating alone, I can never actually work and eat simultaneously. I have discovered that it is a lot more comfortable to eat in a place of eating, where you can chew freely, and if I’m going to be catching up on Instagram for those fifteen or twenty minutes regardless of where I am, I may as well eat alone.
So, I do. I eat alone.
I’m not the best at it, though. I usually spend my time on my phone, or writing emails between bites. Once in a while, however, I have no shame. I get quality, one-on-one time with Dinner or Lunch, who become proper nouns when your friends with real names are not dining with you, and I just look at my food and think about chewing like the French nutritionists tell us to do.
In the city, I can eat alone anywhere at any time and feel okay. In suburbia, however, I cannot do that. This could be for a few reasons: I am still afraid of half of the people I went to high school with and their judgments; the odds of me running into someone I know, even a mother, at an eatery is too high, and our conversation would ruin the point of eating alone; when I am in suburbia I usually spend most of my free time catching up with people, and the best way to do that is over a meal (arguably because it is a good way to avoid eating alone); people are in less of a rush, restaurants are in less of a rush, there are less places for counter service, less people to people-watch; this leads to everything becoming awkward.
I want to say that eating alone is eating alone, so if I can do it in the city I can do it in a small, Jewish suburb of the city. But then I remember that eating alone, like the math from AP Calculus I have very much forgotten, depends on its factors, as previously stated; it is not an independent variable. Math people: did I do that right?
I have no problem eating alone when I’m alone, if that makes sense. I don’t get self-conscious. I’ll face the world solo with my fork and knife — and teaspoon, if I’m feeling dessert — even in peak hours of eating.
Do you? Would you? Did you? Don’t do? Should you? LMK. Asking for a friend.
“Wow, you must’ve been really hungry!”
If you want a mental death sentence, tell me this.
My uncle’s partner did, actually, earlier this week. He’s on a “health kick,” which means spinning classes Tuesday through Thursday. On Wednesday night, I joined him and his biker shorts in the eaves of an old church in Flatiron, and yes, I love how ridiculous that sentence sounds but no, there’s truly no other way to explain what we did without sounding so ridiculous. Afterwards, we picked up dinner to-go from Whole Foods. Salmon, broccoli rabe, and collard greens (the new kale! kaboom!) for me, and turkey, sweet potatoes, and broccoli rabe for he and my uncle.
I was starving, so I ate like a hungry girl. For context, three-quarters of my plate was green stuff from the ground. And no, I’m not talking about the mary jane. That’s a different uncle.
And then it came, flying right across the table like a sharpened steak knife right at my poor pescetarian head.
“Wow, you must’ve been really hungry!”
I scowled. I wanted to jump across the table in rage, Mean Girls style. I wanted to make a bar graph comparing the nutrition contents of each of our meals. I wanted to tell him that there is no shame in eating until you’re full, and there’s no shame in eating a hella lot of collard greens.
Everyone’s been in situations like these, where we aren’t given backhanded compliments but almost the opposite — passive aggressive nips that tug at your ego’s soft spots. Wow, you must’ve been hungry, is perhaps what we can call the “classic,” here.
Getting back to the story — no, I did not unleash my defensive string. I kept those guys on the bench as my fork gracefully reached across the table, stabbed another piece of broccoli rabe, and took it to the mouth like a girl who didn’t half-ass that spin class. (Because we all know spin is easy to fake. We’ve all been there. You know what I’m talking about.)
Later, I vented to my mom about the one-liner that came my way at dinner. “You’re being oversensitive,” she told me then just like she did when —-. He’s a guy, she told me. He doesn’t understand. It’s all in your head.
Being oversensitive isn’t always bad, I guess. And maybe I’m saying that because I know I’m oversensitive, but so is everyone else when someone says something that really gets your weak spot. It’s part of the human condition. If we were oversensitive about nothing, then we simply wouldn’t care.
When an adult recently told me he thought “anorexics are strong, but I have no respect for bulimics,” I wanted to tell him how inappropriate that statement is, how ignorant, how serious of a disease both conditions are, how many people it effects. The lecture I could give would last half an hour.
So, maybe he was ignorant. Maybe, in my broccoli rabe fiasco, the comment was ignorant because it was made by a “guy” (though in my opinion, no excuse — collapse traditional gender roles, people!!) who didn’t know I’m oversensitive and doesn’t understand how his comment is one that knocks most young women get off their rockers, which is oxymoronic to say but true.
Call me a skeptic, or maybe a pessimist, but I find it hard to believe that people can say things like that unbeknownst of their sting. I thought my uncle’s partner, on health kick galore — I mean, he’s just catching on to the spinning trend, for god’s sake — could be fully aware of how his comment would be received because it would make him feel better about what he ate. I sound crazy, I know !!!, but if I was talking about a teenage girl making a comment like this, I know you’d believe me. Sometimes, people are bitter.
Mom could be right, as per usual, and there may be a good difference between those who are offensive and those who are offended in a singular scenario. The true intent of any statement depends on the person. Alas, I am left to rely on the good of humankind, which may be confined to the recent surge in 20-year-old jeans available for purchase, or the fact that my cheetah print espadrilles cost $40, or even that I’m no longer afraid to eat what I want and wear what I choose.
In reality, “darty” makes a horrible flavor. It would taste like beer, and pizza, and probably some dirt and grass, which are all great things individually but not the best when mixed together.
A darty, for those of you who don’t day drink, who do go to a city school, and who refer to day drinking as “brunch,” is a day party. Day + Party = Darty. And that’s all she wrote.
To darty, verb, is to have slightly alcoholic tendencies at a shockingly young age. A darty, noun, is a place where people express their alcoholic tendencies at a shockingly young age. Dartying occurs at universities with school spirit. They are thrown in parking lots and backyards, or outside of football stadiums. It’s what your dad would be doing if the Giants game was being held at AEPi.
I thought dartying was a college thing for the exception of high school spring break trips. I was wrong. Apparently, like most things, dartying cannot be confined within the boundaries of the American university–not the American University, but, like, the American university in general as an institution–and is now spreading to high schools in the months of May and June.
Some schools darty more than others. I totally understand why the nerdier schools darty infrequently but go hard in the paint when they do–it’s actually one of the very few times that you completely forget all responsibilities and to-do lists. This happens subconsciously and naturally, like Mr. Clean magic scrub. I will not deny the fact that my dartying experience is relatively limited. I have had a few notable dartying experiences, however, and they all follow a very similar pattern:
1. Wake up. Be like, “omg, what am I about to do.”
2. Eat a good breakfast. Breakfast is the most important meal of the (Satur)day.
3. Start drinking, want to kill oneself.
4. Overcome with a wave of sheer euphoria. Wow, it is so light out, it is so pretty out, the sun is really shining. I am so happy. I just want to dance and smile.
5. Start talking with everyone around me about how tired I am, how gross I’m going to feel later, how we can’t believe that it’s 1pm and we’re drinking.
6. Essentially spend the whole darty talking about how we can’t believe we’re dartying.
7. If you’re me, start to get anxious, because this is so disorienting even though it’s also really fun.
8. Realize you’re not sick or going to be sick, you’re just hungry because dartying is basically like a really hard workout. So eat.
9. Nap if you’re going to try and resurrect yourself for the party, which happens at night, unlike a darty, which happens during the day.
10. Sleep forever.
11. Or try to go back out again and then get really mean and cranky. And eventually leave because you’re so tired that your mouth won’t really move, and if you are physically unable to kiss or drink more then what’s the point of really being out at all?
It is darty season. It is something I don’t think I’ll ever be able to fully commit to being a part of, because it’s now 3pm on a Tuesday and the lower part of the back of my head still hurts.
But we love it nonetheless. The lighting is better in all of our photos, and we just automatically feel less intoxicated, regardless of how intoxicated we actually are, because denial is the first stage of grief and it’s hard to come to terms with the fact that we’re actually drinking during business hours.
Once, a wise woman once told me crucial advice about dartying: “It’s a marathon, not a sprint.”
Well, nothing for me in my life is ever a sprint–that’s something I’m normally not capable of–so I have no fear that my dartying methods will rock on for eternity.