The Starbucks men's bathroom door displayed an "Out of Order" sign, so the barista handed me the women's bathroom key. That alone does not make me a pervert, though the rest of this story might.
After I urinated, I moved to the trash can to toss out my water bottle. A swinging metal plate covered the trash. I pushed the bottle through the door, and noticed a white box. Curious, I held the door open with the bottle and looked inside.
It's a bathroom trash can. I expected all the used tissues. What I didn't expect was the Victoria's Secret bag, and the EPT box. Of course, when I saw this, my first thought was "Why haven't I been going into women's bathrooms before now?"
Flash back to a couple hours ago. I saw the woman with the Victoria's Secret bag earlier, and she had spent fifteen minutes in the bathroom. I know this because I had to go, and she was inside.
This is pure conjecture, but I think she took the early pregnancy test in the Starbucks bathroom. There was also a stick that was probably the used test, but I didn't want to dig down and retrieve it.
Who is she, that she had to go to the Starbucks bathroom and take the test? Z.M. theorized she had to hide something from her boyfriend. I felt she couldn't wait to get home; there was a CVS pharmacy nearby.
It's cruelly hilarious and compellingly sad. My twisted mind came up with the following: After some clothes shopping, she admits that she hasn't had her period, and had to get the test, but she's not ready for a lifetime devoted to parenthood. It's something that she's scared of, but has to know now. Of course, she can't pee, so she decides to stop in a Starbucks and slam some coffee to get ready. After a venti, she sneaks the VS bag with the EPT test inside into the bathroom. She takes the test, and it's positive. Somewhat stunned and in denial, she puts on the sexy new lingerie for her boyfriend in the bathroom, swearing that after tonight, the one last night where he will still think she's sexy, she will tell him the truth. She dumps the box and bag, and walks out to a strange guy standing there dancing back and forth, looking like he's ready to piss himself. She hands him the key and walks into the rest of her life.
***
I am a member of the Fellowship of Solo Diners. We are a soft-spoken group. Armed with our thick novels, our newspapers, our Kindles, we go into restaurants with our heads held high. When the waiter asks "Two?" we respond "One." The smile on the waiter's face wanes a little, pity enters their voice, they show us (as individuals) to the table made for many. After all, breaking bread should be a communal activity. The ancient tribes bonded over food. Everyone did their part, small or large, and everyone reaped the benefits. Now, our food gathering efforts are distributed, and we no longer need to break bread as a group.
It depresses me.
Not that I'm social or anything. I have lived my life as a loner, for better or worse. (And for whatever reason, that's changing, and I no longer want to be the loner. I just have no clue how to do that.) I still remain a member. Travel often finds me alone, and I have to eat. Most of the time, I either stop by Walgreens for Lunchables and soda, or get room service. However, every so often, I feel a need to venture out into the world, so as not to become a complete shut-in. I find a restaurant, we dance the dance, and I sit there with my book, ready to order my food, scarf it down, and get the hell out. What need have I to linger? You linger over company, good or bad. You plow through food if you're just there to push it down your gullet.
Of course, I feel like everyone is staring at me. I say that because I stare at the solo diners when I see them, and I wonder what their story is. Like the other day, I was having dinner with Z.M., and sitting a table over was another solo diner. I recognized all the traits, the barren look on her face, the crossword puzzle she was working on, getting through her meal ASAP and trying to get out ASAP. We almost collided going to the bathroom, and I wanted to give her a high five and say "I'm with you." Of course, after 1995, I learned you can't do that to strangers the hard way. The restraining order should have expired by now; I don't want another.
It's not as if there's anything wrong with eating alone in public. Except there is something wrong with eating alone in public. More than anything, it's a subtle reminder that, well, you're alone. Again, nothing wrong with being alone. It's just kind of sad. Eating is one of our fundamental survival activities. You eat with others, on a very basic level, you're saying "I am existing next to you." It's different than sitting next to them on the metro, when you're forced together. Generally, you choose the people you eat with, and even if not, at least there's still that social component to it. In some ways, maybe eating with others is a subtle form of acceptance and love.
Think about how vulnerable we are when we're eating. Seated, hands full, mouths full, not really in any position to defend ourselves. Eating with someone is also a very basic show of trust. "I trust you not to stab me while I eat this potato." I'm trying now to remember a meal I've had with someone I don't trust, and I really can't. But, as is my right as a writer, I am imagining eating lunch with someone I don't trust. I'm baring my teeth a lot, and not at ease.
I just found http://www.solodining.com/ after a quick Google search. I want to go the opposite route and set up a website specifically to find the fellowship members a dining companion for a couple hours on short notice. Some auto-match criteria based on day/time, you put in your preferences and locations, and are told to meet somewhere at somewhen with someone you don't know. And why do I feel like I'm reinventing online dating?
But really, not as such, except exactly so. Still, at least for someone that travels, this would be a surprisingly useful tool. Hell, for anyone that doesn't want to eat alone, this could be useful. Maybe this is my destiny, to unite people for the purposes of eating a meal that wouldn't be so solitary.
Hm. Solo diner that goes through a trash can in a women's restroom at Starbucks. I am a pervert, apparently.
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