On Saturday night, I took myself out to dinner. Earlier I had went on a hike with some new people I had just met from the rugby team. I had exhausted my socialization meter for the day, but I was starving and didn’t feel like cooking.
So I walked myself over to the smoked chicken restaurant that’s rock-throwing distance from my house. I was going to place a to-go order there and sit on my porch and eat, but I remembered I had FIVE beer vouchers from there that were only redeemable in-store.
So I went for it. I asked for a table for one, and then I ordered a chicken sandwich and a (FREE) cold, crispy brown ale.
I enjoyed the harmony of the cicadas, the hum of conversations that floated from nearby tables, and some faint music in the background. I felt at peace with myself and my aloneness.
When I was ready to leave, I boxed my leftovers, paid my check, and headed out. I was content with the evening, so much so that I suppose I might have had my chin held a little bit too high. Before I knew it, I missed a step and tripped down it. Several tables saw and asked if I was okay. “Happens all the time!” an employee hollered out.
“I’m fine!” I assured everybody, before gathering myself and darting out of there.
I couldn’t help but laughing at myself the entire time I walked home.