Many solo women, my daughters included, would rather die than be seen in public alone on Saturday night. I didn’t know that in those early months of being widowed. I just knew that I was desperate for some sushi and a movie. Just being able to summon the energy to head out felt like progress to me after months of grieving and social shutdown. Before I could change my mind and tell myself it didn’t matter, I drove to downtown Palo Alto to the sushi restaurant across from the movie.
The waiting area was crowded. Every seat at the sushi bar was occupied. I moved to the front of the waiting area and told the host that I wanted dinner for one.
“Jus one?”
"Yes, I want to catch the 8:00 movie.”
Miraculously, he said “You come,” and led me to a table set for four. As I was sitting down, the waiter approached with four menus. He looked around, looked at me and asked, “Jus one?”
"Yes,” I replied, annoyed at being asked again when I was obviously alone. He quickly began removing the other three place settings when the busboy appeared with a tray carrying four glasses of water. He screeched to a halt , noticed that I was alone and asked, “Jus one?"
By this time, tears mixed with laughter at the absurdity of the situation. It seemed like a Saturday Night Live skit. Everything had a surreal quality about it – being alone, eating alone, surrounded by couples and families, feeling that everyone was looking at me, wondering why I was crying and laughing simultaneously, feeling that I should have stayed home .
After dinner, I walked across the street to the movie. People were waiting to buy tickets. I got on line, feeling that I had just survived something pivotal in my journey back towards emotional healing. The line moved forward and it was my turn at the cashier. “One adult”, I said easing a ten dollar bill under the glass.
“Just one?” the lady asked looking to the right and left of me.
"One adult,” I repeated, looking her straight in the eye. That was the moment I decided never to say "Just one" again.
The waiting area was crowded. Every seat at the sushi bar was occupied. I moved to the front of the waiting area and told the host that I wanted dinner for one.
“Jus one?”
"Yes, I want to catch the 8:00 movie.”
Miraculously, he said “You come,” and led me to a table set for four. As I was sitting down, the waiter approached with four menus. He looked around, looked at me and asked, “Jus one?”
"Yes,” I replied, annoyed at being asked again when I was obviously alone. He quickly began removing the other three place settings when the busboy appeared with a tray carrying four glasses of water. He screeched to a halt , noticed that I was alone and asked, “Jus one?"
By this time, tears mixed with laughter at the absurdity of the situation. It seemed like a Saturday Night Live skit. Everything had a surreal quality about it – being alone, eating alone, surrounded by couples and families, feeling that everyone was looking at me, wondering why I was crying and laughing simultaneously, feeling that I should have stayed home .
After dinner, I walked across the street to the movie. People were waiting to buy tickets. I got on line, feeling that I had just survived something pivotal in my journey back towards emotional healing. The line moved forward and it was my turn at the cashier. “One adult”, I said easing a ten dollar bill under the glass.
“Just one?” the lady asked looking to the right and left of me.
"One adult,” I repeated, looking her straight in the eye. That was the moment I decided never to say "Just one" again.
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