Solo, not so low.

I've been eating the best dinners of my life alone. I'm trying to figure out how I feel about it too. Here's the thing- it's purely circumstantial this whole eating solo bit. I work at a fancy restaurant a couple nights a week to support my dirty habit (music) and so at the end of my shift I often sit down to enjoy the weekly special or the tomato tarte or a bowl of piping hot soup De jour ( Ie. the best meals of my life, each somehow grater than the last) and there is very seldom anyone around at that point to share the time, the wine or the food with me.

Straight away that doesn't sound too bad at all. And its not. My feelings, I realized last night (as I used my index finger to lick the plate clean of my Ivory Troll King Salmon with citrus and parsley butter over pureed celery root and black kale) are completely mixed concerning this issue.

On the one hand there's the incredible privilege of a gourmet meal paired with great wine or fancy beer all at a fraction of their retail costs- and that's just never a loss. On the other hand- and this is the part I was beginning to explore at the outset of my taste-buds' sensory journey last eve- the unavoidable truth... I'm alone.

I once visited London and Scotland totally on my own. It wasn't the original plan. My boyfriend at the time and I had dreamed up the trip as a pre-cursor to a visit to Ireland with my dad, brother and sis in law. We wanted to stay in hostels, walk through Knotting Hill and visit the William Wallace memorial in Edinburgh. Then, as fate would have it, the boy broke my heart. And because I still wanted and, at that point needed so badly an adventure and also because none of my friends could afford it, I went alone.

That trip was unlike any other I had been on. I'd traveled a significant amount but never by myself. I was 23, broken hearted, vulnerable. I brought a gigantic metal framed hiking backpack that was far more trouble than it was worth. I carried a 1982 Cannon SLR which I had not a clue how to operate and most of all I took along my very first black leather, hardbound, Moleskine writing journal.

As it turns out, I rather enjoyed that trip. I grew close to myself. I ran in the biting and bitter cold to catch buses and riverboats and taxi vans, to see sights, to get dinner or to find coffee. My first night in London, at my hostel, I met a very cute and friendly Australian boy named Ben. He had just arrived in London to see the sights before moving to the country for a work stay exchange as a gardener in a Manor. We ate our meals together and strolled through Kensington park and talked about God and America and ideals. He was a year or two younger than I, but he was smart. I think he maybe wanted to kiss me, I never let him. I was broken hearted and alone. Maybe I should have.

All this to say. I'm not sure that I particularly mind being alone. I suppose no company is better than bad company. I mean, of course I would rather share a life changing fish dinner with someone who, at the end, would appreciate to see me smile and raise my arms to the heavens in praise (which, don't kid yourself, is exactly what I did last night by myself). Of course I would rather speak and be spoken to in a moment of discovery or, at times, to be challenged by a perspective that is entirely other than my own. Of course.

It just so happens that I am in a season of my life where I am eating the best meals alone. And last night I was really ok with that. Maybe one day I'll no longer be, but for now I just am.

I have just discovered something. Well, two things now that I've written that. The first is that I am "just discovering" more than anything these days. I'm old for my age but there is so much I realize that I ought to be realizing all the more as every day passes.

The other thing is- I really detest moving. Yeah, like, putting all of one's earthly belongings into boxes and trucks and loading and lifting- that whole thing I hate! Oh sure, I like starting over, turning a new leaf and all but really, there's just not much worse (except things that involve death or dying) than moving.

Its hard work alright. Because once you've actually packed it all into boxes and carried it down the first flight of stairs and thrown it into the boot of your midsized hatchback or otherwise giant moving van, you've still got to haul your world up another mountain of stairs. You've got to find sturdy and willing young males to lift your giant couch through and around impossible doorways and corners. And you've got to do this all in a matter of a day or two. Because you only have as long before someone else needs your old key. There's a lot of pressure that surrounds the whole thing.

I found out what geniuses those guys were that invented moving services. I found this out whilst transporting the "last load" just yesterday. I passed a semi truck parked in front of a lovely home where men with large muscles and uniformed black t-shirts were streaming like a line of work aunts in and out of the house and gigantic truck. They carried boxes and furniture with cheerful dispositions. All this whilst the matron of the house stood on the lawn shielding her eyes from the sun with both hands and shouting orders or the occasional "careful with that one".

Suddenly it all made sense. So that’s what money can buy, I thought. And I rolled down the street at 19 mph, my Ikea wardrobe shoved so far into the back of my car I had to fold the seat forward passed the clicks and position myself such that my body was folded at less than a 45 degree angle with my chin touching the steering wheel and my elbows cinched in at my sides. Somehow momentarily, I felt like I knew what it was to be an estranged desert tortoise. And that's really something if you think about it. I kept praying at every stop sign or light that I would not be seen by a police officer, or worse, a foxy guy. And even though it seems like if the tables were turned I would find any handsome chap quite endearing for such circumstances, I really believe I simply looked pathetic.

So here I am. I'm buried in boxes feeling really guilty about the idea that I own this much stuff. And I'm overwhelmed to the point that as soon as I convince myself its a good time to begin unpacking I instead reach for my guitar or computer or any other thing I can besides a box. Still, I have visions of grandeur for this new place. I've even got well meaning ambitions to have a yard sale where the proceeds will go towards responsible purchases such as curtains and non-stick frying pans.

These are exciting times I know. Loads, literally, to look forward to. For now I will enjoy the stormy weather and many windowed view I've just agreed to pay for each month. The thing is, I'm happy. Happily overwhelmed with newness and that is just as good as any place to live.