Not sharp enough to know I was supposed to be humiliated

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Ok, so I thought this was an odd title for an online article:

“How not to feel humiliated when dining alone”

Um. Why would I? I rather enjoy eating out alone.

Given the photo of the sad lonely brunette (she HAD to be a brunette, right?) that accompanies the article, I think reading between the lines, the title of the article is more like:

“You sad lonely dried up old maid. How terrible that you have to eat alone.”

Because *clearly* the target audience for this story isn’t guys. I don’t know that most guys would feel humiliated dining alone. They’d pull up a chair to the bar, order a beer and dive in. Isn’t all this fuss and kerfuffle a girl thing?

The story goes on to offer several suggestions for how that lonely gal can make it through such a harrowing experience as having to dine alone like reading a book or staring into her mobile device.

Please. Eating out alone is great. You don’t have to share your dessert, you can drink too many glasses of wine if you want, and you can burp at the table. What’s not to love about this experience?

And oh the people watching. So much to take in!

Plus, plenty of couples look miserable dining together. But they are not “humiliated” because they are not alone, so it’s ok? Bah!

I guess I sort of thought we were past the days when someone eating alone in a restaurant was a weird thing. So many people travel for business or just choose to spend time alone. In my book this is no longer odd.

And the conventional wisdom used to be that as a solo diner the wait staff wouldn’t serve you as well (one person means smaller tab means smaller tip) but I have found the opposite to be true. I think wait staff rather enjoy the ease of just one person at the table. No question where the entrĂ©e goes!

I’ve not ever felt slighted or mistreated when dining alone. It works just fine.

Sure, I’d rather have The Good Man there because, mainly, he makes any thing I do a lot more fun (he could make going to the dentist for a root canal a worthwhile adventure!). But if I’m away from him and I’m hungry, well, a girl’s gotta eat!

Honestly most of my girlfriends are the same way. Eating alone in a restaurant is no biggie.

Most girls half my age are twice as bold as me, so I don’t think they have issues either.

Who is this story really aimed at? As I read the comments, most of the ladies chiming in seem to agree with my point of view on this.

And seems most agree that the title of the article is just plain terrible.

I guess my message to the author is to simply quote the comment left by a reader named Melissa:

“Thanks for bashing my confidence in eating alone. I guess now when I take myself out to lunch to be awesome I have to feel HUMILIATED instead.”

So there!

I have the powa!

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Watch out for me. I am potent. I have powers even I don’t understand.

The power of mah mind.

Oh yes.

See, on Monday, I went for a walk over at the Stanford Dish, a pretty grueling up and down hilly walk that knocks the wind out of me and makes me sweat. Generally The Dish humbles me very much.

It’s hard for me to complete the Dish. It takes effort. A lot of effort.

On Monday, I had to stop five times during the journey to catch my breath. It’s embarrassing.

Exercising at The Dish is rather popular with the beautiful and healthy people of the surrounding Palo Alto area (home to Stanford University, rich AND smart people), so as I go schlumping along, I often encounter blond, beautiful and much more attractive than me-type people.

So, there I was on Monday, a nice day, walking along in my old faded yoga pants, a loose shirt and a grimace. I’d already wheezed up the first hill and made my first stop as my lungs were burning.

But damnit man, I was *doing* it.

As I continued to walk at an ok pace, I was passed by a young man wearing one of those shiny new tight, moisture wicking, Nike logo emblazoned shirts. He’d paired this with fancy running shorts, sparkling white shoes, fresh iPod strapped to his arm and the perfect runners stance. Hell, he didn’t even have the rictus you see on the face of most joggers.

No. He was a blond chiseled sample of running perfection. Elbows bent at the perfect angle, strides the right distance. All perfect. He passed me (wide, middle aged, out of shape) with a snotty air and as he cruised past me, he gave two dye job blondes with store bought boobies a long, meaningful look.

Ok, I’m not too proud to admit it. I got snarky. In my head.

“Loser! I hope you trip and fall! I hope you get a cramp in your leg! I hope you gas out on the next hill!” I thought to myself.

Then he was gone over the next rise and it was me and the Bee Gees on my iPod shuffle. And another hill to climb.

So I trudged along.

Fifteen minutes later, I caught up to the guy.

He’d gassed out. He was walking. Slowly. I passed him. I didn’t even look his way. I just kept walking. Smugly.

Later, I encountered a woman who was really pert and fit. She was walking ahead of me on a hill where I had to stop twice. She stopped not at all.

“Well aren’t YOU so fit!” I thought in my tacky brain. “Bite me! Just….oooh, I hope you get tired! Oh no, you are soooo healthy!”

And when I finally got to the top of the hill, guess who I found standing there, breathing hard?

She’d made it all the way up the hill, but then had to stop.

I passed her too.

Oh the mind power of a snarky out of shape girl with determination on her mind!

I smited them down!

Or…maybe…The Dish is just a really challenging route.

You know, I always thought that whole tortoise and the hare story was a bunch of bollocks. A story told to slow pokes like me to engender some sort of hope.

But maybe…just maybe, there is some truth to that fable?

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