I thought twice about writing because of the whole “do you even know how to be in the moment?” thing. This is my moment though. Way too often I get grief about always hiding behind my camera or notepad with an inability to be in a moment. Once you try to capture it, you’re not in it. No, I’m MORE in it. It adds to my enjoyment of it. That’s just the way I am, especially when I’m alone.
I’m at Thom Bar, alone, on a Saturday night, because I can be. My friends are at Gstaad. I’ll join them soon enough. I need alone time, even if it is at a bar, listening to men order “your best grappa, a water, and a diet coke.” Those that beset me are in micro mini pleated skirts, wearing fur around their necks. I’m not allowed to make fun. I wore open toe shoes with a down-filled coat. It’s the shite that comes with Manhattan. You dress the part for inside. The sparkling, dazzling, we’re not in New York, New York attitude, but outside, you can’t confuse Manhattan for a tropical island. It’s a cold island, and your down is your reality check. So is your too small apartment you’re about to go home to…
I used to worry about “alone,” terrified it was some kind of open, state of being, to judgment. “Oh, she’s alone because no one likes her. She’s alone because she’s a pain in the ass. No one wants her.” I was so afraid of alone.
I spent this weekend alone, getting drunk by myself, mostly. It doesn’t scare me anymore. Last night, I went to a bar by myself. Tonight, dinner. People I know really do ask me how I do it, “I would never.”
Then there are the people who say they love it. “I go to the movies alone all the time.” It’s like they want a Huggy Bear One patch for their scouting badge. They go on a day off, or an afternoon. They don’t really go to the movies alone. Ask ‘em what they’re doing on Saturday night. “Going to the movies.” Really? With who? “I’m going alone.” But it’s Saturday. Are you sure? Please, people who say they go to the movies alone… they really don’t. They’re trying to be that person who’s comfortable alone. They aren’t. I used to be that girl, too. Try eating alone on a Saturday night at a restaurant, with linen, telling the waitress, “No, it’s just me.” I believe it says something about your character, something good. That’s why so many people whip out the, “I do the movies alone” card. They want to be that person too.
It’s a choice to be alone, though. There’s a comfort in that. I could be out with someone else, but I choose to be here on my own. It’s enjoyable, actually. Not in a lonesome, I have too many cats and read too many books and take too many baths, way. It’s comfortable knowing it’s you, paying for yours, enjoying yours, comfortable with just you. I kind of love being alone, spreading out, taking up the whole bed. For now, anyway.
I’m afraid to turn around and give up my space at the bar. It’s like West Villiage real estate. I swear to God, there must be something in my expressions or eyes that provokes European men to hit on me. They’re everywhere, offering me drinks in accents, telling me they love my hair. I’d prefer to go it alone that battle too much skin on something too small.