I Like to Eat, in My Car, by Myself

I like to eat, in my car, by myself.

Not many things get me as excited anymore quite like knowing I have the opportunity to eat alone in my car.

I get to pick out what I want. No negotiations.

I don’t even need to change out of my pajama pants.

No makeup, hair resembles Jack Nicholson from The Shining. No problem. That’s nothing a hat and a pair of sunglasses can’t fix.

No one talking to me. No one chewing. No pets, kids, husband or mother breathing in my space.

I love them all dearly, but I just want to be left the fuck alone when I eat.

We are taught that meals are a social occasion. A time to catch up.

Bitch, I just want to eat my chicken nuggies and fries and turn my brain off.

Invite me out to a restaurant: social occasion.

A birthday: social occasion.

Christmas: a social occasion.

But Tuesday night at 6 p.m.?

Back off and do not even make eye contact with me.

I don’t want to hear about your day.

I don’t want to tell you about mine.

I don’t want someone walking into the room and asking, “What are you eating?”

Food.

I’m eating food.

And then comes the question that has destroyed peaceful meals since the beginning of time.

“Can I have one?”

No.

No, you cannot have one.

You had an opportunity to acquire your own chicken nuggies. I would have happily assisted you in the acquisition of said nuggies.

You declined.

The nugget window has closed.

And I know this sounds antisocial.

I am social.

I like people.

Some of my favourite people are people.

I just don’t necessarily want them around while I’m eating.

Because somehow a meal at home is never just a meal.

Someone needs something.

Someone can’t find something.

A dog is staring directly into your soul because apparently it hasn’t eaten since 1847.

Someone is chewing like they have recently acquired teeth and are experimenting with them for the first time.

My husband will ask me a perfectly reasonable question and I will experience it as a personal attack because I AM CURRENTLY CHEWING.

But in the car?

Nothing.

Beautiful, glorious nothing.

Just me, my fries and whatever completely useless shit I feel like scrolling through on my phone.

No conversation.

No responsibility.

No sharing.

Nobody saying my name.

There was probably a time in my life when the idea of eating alone in a parked car would have seemed depressing.

At 48?

This is fucking VIP.

People pay hundreds of dollars to go to spas where they’re given robes and cucumber water and told to disconnect from the outside world.

Give me $14 worth of chicken, a Diet Coke and 25 uninterrupted minutes in my Hyundai.

I’ll find enlightenment myself.

And maybe that’s the part nobody prepares you for.

You spend years dreaming about vacations, date nights and fancy restaurants.

Then one day you realize your idea of luxury has quietly become:

Nobody needs me.

Nobody is touching me.

Nobody is chewing near me.

And I don’t have to give anybody one of my fucking fries.

I sit there looking like Jack Nicholson in pajama pants and sunglasses, absolutely delighted with my life.

Then I finish eating, gather up the garbage and drive home to the people I love.

Because I do love them.

Very much.

I just love them slightly more after I’ve eaten alone.