By myself.
“You need to learn to be happy with yourself.” That’s what they say. It’s been said on television. On Oprah. On Jerry Springer. It’s been in books. Books written by John Grey, Phil McGraw, and Dr. Seuss. They say it on the radio waves that float through the air. Dr. Laura says it to thousands of drivers. They say it in movies starring Meg Ryan and Colin Firth. They say it in newspaper columns written by the Dear Abby writer. Sometimes, if you’re lucky, you read it in bathroom stalls. Everywhere you go. Everywhere you look. Everywhere you hear, if you listen. Quiet. Careful. Listen. Hear it? There it is. “If you want to be happy? If you truly want to be happy, you must first learn to be happy with yourself.”
Someone said that exact thing to me the other day. We sat on a bench. The bench sat on the front patio of a nice home cooking type of eatery. We sat on the bench, looking out at the buildings brick exterior; the climbing vines climbing up the walls and pillars on the patio. We watched as people rushed through the patio, trying to catch the end of the restaurant’s lunch hours. It was almost two in the afternoon.
This is not how the conversation happened. This is a fictional account:
THEM: Can I ask you something?
ME: Sure.
THEM: What do you think?
ME: About what?
THEM: About life.
ME: Really? I have no real opinions. I’m serious. I get up in the mornings. I go to work. I go home. I go to sleep. I expect nothing. I want to expect everything sure. But I find that I rarely get what I expect, or what I might want. At least, not lately it seems. So I’ve started to expect nothing.
THEM: Really?
ME: No. Yes. Maybe. Close enough.
THEM: Do you miss the you that you were ten years ago?
ME: Yes. I really don’t know what happened.
THEM: CONTENT DELETED
ME: Yes. That’s true.
THEM: So.
There’s a pause in the conversation. I looked up onto the roof of the building. A giant metallic wind catcher was spinning. It was big; it had giant blades that swung in a circular motion, like a fan, as the wind whipped against the blades. It looked deadly. Like the blades of a turbine engine, spinning relentlessly, waiting to chop something into tiny pieces.
I wanted to the wind catcher to spin off its axis, off of whatever was holding it to the roof. I wanted it to tumble down the wall pulling up the clinging vines, tearing apart the brick pillars. Falling to the ground, rolling over benches and tables chopping the cement up into tiny pieces.
I wanted to stand in front of that rolling juggernaut. I wanted to see those blade spin, the destruction it caused up close. But things like that don’t happen in real life. And even if they did, I’m really not that kind of person.
THEM: So, are you happy right now?
ME: Not really.
THEM: You know, you can’t wait for someone to come along to rescue you. No one wants that kind of pressure. You can’t expect someone….
The voice drones. I listen. But I know what they are saying, and I know what’s coming next. Please. All I’m asking for is one giant gust of wind. I want that damn wind catcher to fall off the roof. I want to see some damage. I want to see some action. How can people eat this late in the day? I guess I eat around this time all the time. It just seems odd that old people, people as old as my grandparents would come into a restaurant at this late hour in the afternoon. I wonder if it will rain today. Now, nod yes. Look away. Nod yes. This is slightly uncomfortable.
THEM: You need to be happy with yourself first before you can be happy with someone else.
19 hours later…
I get up. I brush my teeth. I go to the gym. I run on the treadmill. I take a shower. I go to work. I shelve and price books. Lunchtime.
So, I need to learn to be happy with myself, before I can be happy with others. That probably means I should do more things by myself (other than the eating, sleeping, showering, dreaming, watching television, and talking I seem to do all the time by myself). So today for lunch, instead of picking something up at Wendy’s, McDonalds, Sonic, Whataburger, Chic-fil-a, or Taco Bell, bringing it back to work, and eating whatever I’ve bought in front of my computer while reading CNN.COM, I’m going to go to Jason’s Deli, sit down and read my book by myself. It will just be me, my book, and a potato, and no other distractions.
THOUGHTS ON EATING ALONE:
Oh, see this isn’t so bad. I’ve got my book, the place isn’t too crowded. “One Plain Jane Potato and a drink please.” Why did she ask if that was all? Why would I need more than that? It’s just me. Oh God. She knows I’m alone. She knows that there are only two people that eat alone. Serial killers and the socially dysfunctional. She knows I’m one of them. And look at me. I don’t look like a serial killer. I look like I’m socially dysfunctional. I knew it! Socially dysfunctional people are the kind of people who eat to baked potatoes. Now she thinks I’m a serial killer because I didn’t eat a second potato. I don’t even look like a serial killer! How can any one person eat more than one giant ass potato? Okay, calm down. Breath. Just breathe. Okay see, there you go. It’s not so bad. Just open the book, and start reading. There you go, you like to read don’t you? Yeah, this isn’t so bad.
I’m the only one who’s sitting by myself. Look at that. A couple here, a family there. There are some ladies who look like they’re out shopping together. Oh a few guys just getting back from a pick up game of basketball. Wait there’s an old guy sitting by himself. He sort of looks like a college professor of archeology. Is that tweed he’s wearing? It’s 80 degrees outside, why’s he wearing tweed? Oh man. He’s a serial killer. Damn it! Damn it, damn it, damn it! I knew it. I knew this was a rare club I was getting into. The eating by yourself club. Sure, eat by yourself. You’ll be happy. It’s good to spend time with yourself. IF YOU’RE A KILLER!
Oh man, even the tweed jacket killer man has someone to eat with. I can’t believe it. He’s eating with someone. I’m the only person eating here by myself.
Wait. Wait. There’s a girl there. She’s by herself. She’s not half bad looking. She’s kind of cute. Look at her there, by herself. She doesn’t look like a killer. She’s kind of nervous looking. She must be by herself. She has that, “I’m eating by myself” look. It’s the look I know I’ve had plastered on my face the whole time I’ve been here.
I wonder if I should go talk to her. Tell her, “I understand.” Maybe we’d hit it off. Maybe this is fate. Maybe this is how we meet. One day our kids will ask how we met, and we’ll laugh that we were both eating alone at a Jason’s Deli. It’s like a Nora Ephron movie. I can be Tom Hanks like. She could be Meg Ryan. Yes. Of course. It makes sense. We’re perfect for one another. I bet the sex would be great too. I just know it. We’d have great morning sex. And we’d watch television together, the two of us, on the couch, curled up into one little ball. We’d joke about the murders on Law and Order. That’s the kind of couple we’d be. We’d throw cards into a hat while telling stories and drinking wine and eating crackers. We’d throw a Frisbee to one another in the park. We’d fly kites. I haven’t thrown a Frisbee or flown a kite in fifteen years. But we would throw Frisbees and fly kites. I know we would. We’d take road trips to Graceland and Dolly world. This will be great. And all because I decided to go to Jason’s Deli by myself.
Ah damn it! There’s someone with her. And he’s got a bald spot. Really? Fucking bald spot?
Jesus. This was a bad idea. There’s no way this can be a good idea. Just because you can’t eat a potato by yourself doesn’t mean you’re unhappy right? I mean that can’t be what life is about. Eating by yourself? And just because I said I wasn’t happy doesn’t mean I’m unhappy. Right? Hell, what do I know? Maybe this is happy. Maybe I’m gloriously happy. Who’s to say I’m not?
Did that guy just stare at me? He knows. He knows I’m alone. He’s going to go home and tell all his friends. He’s going to tell them about the lonely guy at Jason’s Deli. Damn it. And over there. That kid knows in his heart that I’m a killer. Damn it. This is it. This is what my life has come to. Me, a serial killer, reading a book, waiting to eat a potato, all by myself. Learn to live with myself. What a croc. What a load of-
“Here’s your potato you ordered sir. Can I get you anything else?”
“I’M PERFECTLY FUCKING HAPPY!”
Someone said that exact thing to me the other day. We sat on a bench. The bench sat on the front patio of a nice home cooking type of eatery. We sat on the bench, looking out at the buildings brick exterior; the climbing vines climbing up the walls and pillars on the patio. We watched as people rushed through the patio, trying to catch the end of the restaurant’s lunch hours. It was almost two in the afternoon.
This is not how the conversation happened. This is a fictional account:
THEM: Can I ask you something?
ME: Sure.
THEM: What do you think?
ME: About what?
THEM: About life.
ME: Really? I have no real opinions. I’m serious. I get up in the mornings. I go to work. I go home. I go to sleep. I expect nothing. I want to expect everything sure. But I find that I rarely get what I expect, or what I might want. At least, not lately it seems. So I’ve started to expect nothing.
THEM: Really?
ME: No. Yes. Maybe. Close enough.
THEM: Do you miss the you that you were ten years ago?
ME: Yes. I really don’t know what happened.
THEM: CONTENT DELETED
ME: Yes. That’s true.
THEM: So.
There’s a pause in the conversation. I looked up onto the roof of the building. A giant metallic wind catcher was spinning. It was big; it had giant blades that swung in a circular motion, like a fan, as the wind whipped against the blades. It looked deadly. Like the blades of a turbine engine, spinning relentlessly, waiting to chop something into tiny pieces.
I wanted to the wind catcher to spin off its axis, off of whatever was holding it to the roof. I wanted it to tumble down the wall pulling up the clinging vines, tearing apart the brick pillars. Falling to the ground, rolling over benches and tables chopping the cement up into tiny pieces.
I wanted to stand in front of that rolling juggernaut. I wanted to see those blade spin, the destruction it caused up close. But things like that don’t happen in real life. And even if they did, I’m really not that kind of person.
THEM: So, are you happy right now?
ME: Not really.
THEM: You know, you can’t wait for someone to come along to rescue you. No one wants that kind of pressure. You can’t expect someone….
The voice drones. I listen. But I know what they are saying, and I know what’s coming next. Please. All I’m asking for is one giant gust of wind. I want that damn wind catcher to fall off the roof. I want to see some damage. I want to see some action. How can people eat this late in the day? I guess I eat around this time all the time. It just seems odd that old people, people as old as my grandparents would come into a restaurant at this late hour in the afternoon. I wonder if it will rain today. Now, nod yes. Look away. Nod yes. This is slightly uncomfortable.
THEM: You need to be happy with yourself first before you can be happy with someone else.
19 hours later…
I get up. I brush my teeth. I go to the gym. I run on the treadmill. I take a shower. I go to work. I shelve and price books. Lunchtime.
So, I need to learn to be happy with myself, before I can be happy with others. That probably means I should do more things by myself (other than the eating, sleeping, showering, dreaming, watching television, and talking I seem to do all the time by myself). So today for lunch, instead of picking something up at Wendy’s, McDonalds, Sonic, Whataburger, Chic-fil-a, or Taco Bell, bringing it back to work, and eating whatever I’ve bought in front of my computer while reading CNN.COM, I’m going to go to Jason’s Deli, sit down and read my book by myself. It will just be me, my book, and a potato, and no other distractions.
THOUGHTS ON EATING ALONE:
Oh, see this isn’t so bad. I’ve got my book, the place isn’t too crowded. “One Plain Jane Potato and a drink please.” Why did she ask if that was all? Why would I need more than that? It’s just me. Oh God. She knows I’m alone. She knows that there are only two people that eat alone. Serial killers and the socially dysfunctional. She knows I’m one of them. And look at me. I don’t look like a serial killer. I look like I’m socially dysfunctional. I knew it! Socially dysfunctional people are the kind of people who eat to baked potatoes. Now she thinks I’m a serial killer because I didn’t eat a second potato. I don’t even look like a serial killer! How can any one person eat more than one giant ass potato? Okay, calm down. Breath. Just breathe. Okay see, there you go. It’s not so bad. Just open the book, and start reading. There you go, you like to read don’t you? Yeah, this isn’t so bad.
I’m the only one who’s sitting by myself. Look at that. A couple here, a family there. There are some ladies who look like they’re out shopping together. Oh a few guys just getting back from a pick up game of basketball. Wait there’s an old guy sitting by himself. He sort of looks like a college professor of archeology. Is that tweed he’s wearing? It’s 80 degrees outside, why’s he wearing tweed? Oh man. He’s a serial killer. Damn it! Damn it, damn it, damn it! I knew it. I knew this was a rare club I was getting into. The eating by yourself club. Sure, eat by yourself. You’ll be happy. It’s good to spend time with yourself. IF YOU’RE A KILLER!
Oh man, even the tweed jacket killer man has someone to eat with. I can’t believe it. He’s eating with someone. I’m the only person eating here by myself.
Wait. Wait. There’s a girl there. She’s by herself. She’s not half bad looking. She’s kind of cute. Look at her there, by herself. She doesn’t look like a killer. She’s kind of nervous looking. She must be by herself. She has that, “I’m eating by myself” look. It’s the look I know I’ve had plastered on my face the whole time I’ve been here.
I wonder if I should go talk to her. Tell her, “I understand.” Maybe we’d hit it off. Maybe this is fate. Maybe this is how we meet. One day our kids will ask how we met, and we’ll laugh that we were both eating alone at a Jason’s Deli. It’s like a Nora Ephron movie. I can be Tom Hanks like. She could be Meg Ryan. Yes. Of course. It makes sense. We’re perfect for one another. I bet the sex would be great too. I just know it. We’d have great morning sex. And we’d watch television together, the two of us, on the couch, curled up into one little ball. We’d joke about the murders on Law and Order. That’s the kind of couple we’d be. We’d throw cards into a hat while telling stories and drinking wine and eating crackers. We’d throw a Frisbee to one another in the park. We’d fly kites. I haven’t thrown a Frisbee or flown a kite in fifteen years. But we would throw Frisbees and fly kites. I know we would. We’d take road trips to Graceland and Dolly world. This will be great. And all because I decided to go to Jason’s Deli by myself.
Ah damn it! There’s someone with her. And he’s got a bald spot. Really? Fucking bald spot?
Jesus. This was a bad idea. There’s no way this can be a good idea. Just because you can’t eat a potato by yourself doesn’t mean you’re unhappy right? I mean that can’t be what life is about. Eating by yourself? And just because I said I wasn’t happy doesn’t mean I’m unhappy. Right? Hell, what do I know? Maybe this is happy. Maybe I’m gloriously happy. Who’s to say I’m not?
Did that guy just stare at me? He knows. He knows I’m alone. He’s going to go home and tell all his friends. He’s going to tell them about the lonely guy at Jason’s Deli. Damn it. And over there. That kid knows in his heart that I’m a killer. Damn it. This is it. This is what my life has come to. Me, a serial killer, reading a book, waiting to eat a potato, all by myself. Learn to live with myself. What a croc. What a load of-
“Here’s your potato you ordered sir. Can I get you anything else?”
“I’M PERFECTLY FUCKING HAPPY!”