H is for Hope

I’ve been fantasizing about eating out alone encouraged by the fact I think Cathy does it quite often and loves it and by Suzy’s art teacher’s declaration, “The mark of a real woman is being able to go out to eat alone and not feel lonely.” (or something like that I can also think of many other marks of real womanhood- but most are much more dramatic, time consuming or painful- I was thinking literal mark on that last one.
I finished painting my kitchen, actually scrubbing the dried dots of paint off the floor boards and hand scrubbed the floor around 9 last night. Then I realized I was quite hungry or obsessed with the idea of food and had a pristine kitchen with a wet floor. I was also getting weary of the “I LOVE this color! This color makes me want to PUKE!” argument inside my head. As I proudly sealed the paint to put it down in the basement, patting myself on the back for a job finished, if not so well done- I read on the little color label sticker “Martha Stewart Signature Color”. Does that mean this, ‘artesian spring’ is Martha’s? Does she have one signature color, like Cyndi Lauper’s hot pink, or is it a line of colors? I started squinting my eyes and trying to think of her magazine in the checkout line of the grocery store. I really think I may have painted my kitchen her favorite signature color, but alas, I just went to marthastewart.com and her web page borders are much greener than artesian spring. I could go deeper into the swells of my imagination of what painting my kitchen a MS signature color could mean, but… I’m just going to say that she seems like a spiteful woman but she has the best recipe for blue cheese dressing I’ve come across.
So I finished the paint job and had a raging sense of entitlement. I had spent all day on the phone back and forth about rehearsal spaces, venues, blah blah blah… this is not the part of theatre I enjoy. I put Lucy in the bathroom as her puppy dog eyes questioned, “I thought this was Our friday night!”, grabbed my coat and headed to India Garden. I almost turned back, I considered calling in an order and picking it up, but I didn’t think they offer a glass of wine to go. On my way in, I skimmed the restaurant through the window with a slow approach. Eating alone I could handle, maybe not if I was surrounded by people I know, eating together. When I almost turned around to go home, I had a vision of glistening garlic naan and it pulled me through to answer “A table for one, please”, to his question, “Can I help you?” I was seated next to a table of six, my ‘contemporaries’ if you will, and although I couldn’t help but overhear everything they said- they were loud, I remember nothing of what they said. If nothing else, dining alone is good because it makes you stop talking so much. I ordered my much awaited glass of red wine- they have a list, but I think they all come out of the same box there- and I got ID’d. I am twenty-nine and rather than be flattered, I almost always mentally regress into that 18 year old, chin up, trying to channel maturity to get into that bar. Anyway, I had paneer masala and garlic naan and it was delicious. The host kept right on top of it, if I needed anything, with a very sweet and un-pitying smile. I started a bit self-conscious. But I left full- instead of lonely.

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