Table for One

If you don't like being in your own company, what makes you think others will?—Anonymous

After two divorces, I swore that if I ever found love again, I wanted it to stick around, last a lifetime, or at least the rest of my life. Yet, as my mother once reminded me, "You can't make people stay. You just become the best you can be, and people will want to be around those who love themselves."

I longed for that euphoric "I am so in love, I can't think of anything else" brain fog that helped me temporarily avoid reality. I realized I loved the idea of love, the feeling you get when falling in love, only to float high in the infatuation clouds that lurk above in the first days, months, and sometimes, even years of a budding relationship.

But as I remember deliriously beginning many a relationship, it was not uncommon to one day roll over in bed, look at my partner, and wonder, "What the hell was I thinking?" As Elizabeth Gilbert wrote in her book "Committed"— "You weren't." Psychologists call this state of deluded madness narcissistic love. Often, the joy-filled euphoria of a new relationship blinds our ability to seek qualities that help us achieve a healthy relationship. When we're unable to see our needs, we often repeat the mistakes made in previous failed relationships. And our gut often warns us, but many times we don’t choose to listen. We make excuses and ignore that reliable voice in our heads.

Fifty percent of first-time marriages fail and a whopping 70 percent of second marriages end in divorce. I'm part of that lovely statistic on both counts. Failing in relationships 120 percent— not good for someone who longs for love. I wanted what my parents had, a rare existence, I know —five plus decades of a successful marriage.

But through two divorces, I definitely learned a thing or two that I can apply to love, loss, and learning.

We may want to blame a failed relationship on the other person, and maybe we can't accept that the person we see in the mirror every morning also decided to change course.

The recipes for successful unions are found in many family therapy books, but the best relationship advice I received was from my parents. My parents were married 52 years until my mother died 11 years ago. They had the most magical relationship I've ever witnessed.

They secretly married the summer before my mom graduated high school. And the day after mom graduated – dad was two years older – Dad climbed a tree and retrieved her and her belongings. You know, the kind of stuff fairytales are made of. They left West Virginia with no more than $300 in their pockets and headed to sunny, California. Dad worked six, sometimes seven days a week, fixing and painting cars. Mom worked by his side. Dad brought mom coffee every morning in just the right cup with the thin-lipped rim and spring flowers. Mom went to "Big and Tall" to buy dad that hard-to-find-sizes not found in other stores. They ate breakfast together. They took trips together. Yes, they fought like any couple, I'm sure. But growing up, I never heard them say an ill word to - or about - each other. They respected each other and were also their own people, very much in charge of their emotions and I’m sure they each gave space for the ebbs and flows of a growing marriage, that wasn't always perfect. Through my eyes, however, it appeared near perfect, or the kind of relationship I'd hope for.

Since my mother's passing, my father often tells stories about his relationship with my mom.

"We always talked," Dad said. "I'd ask her if she liked the way our life was going and if there was anything we could do to improve? Was there anything else she wanted for herself? And I asked myself the same. We were partners."

Sounds simple enough, yet I can think of a few couples who have attained what I consider the "Gold Medal of Marriage"— A marriage, albeit, not perfect, but perfect for each other.

Respecting yourself and your partner is the real cement that holds relationships together. Allowing your partner to be who they want to be and honoring their path in life. Meanwhile, being on your journey, but at least agreeing on fidelity, or at least agreeing on what you choose for that to look like together.

I love metaphors. Sometimes, they help me understand things, so I'll give you this: Ideally, you are in the same car, traveling together down the same highway. Maybe one of you has a headset on, listening to your own music. Or swiping through newsfeeds of Facebook, while the other is safely steering? Yet, many of us are not in the same car at all. We travel completely in separate cars but sometimes, we choose different modes of transportation altogether and follow different road maps, if we choose a map at all! You get the idea! You get lost and can't find your way. You're alone. Again.

In "Fear of Flying," Erica Jong writes about a young woman trying to find who she is and where she is going. She says, "Solitude is un-American." I disagree. Not to mention that if you're uncomfortable being alone, how can you know yourself and in turn be yourself with your partner? Although I love spending time with my two grown sons, boyfriend, friends, and family, I also crave solitude. Pre-COVID, I enjoyed going to the movies, traveling, and even— eating at restaurants alone.

One night, I posed this challenge to a friend who was struggling with isolation, after she moved out of state and started a new job: "Why not ask for a table for one at your favorite restaurant some night?" She said this idea made her cringe.

She said, "Having my teeth drilled, with no novocaine, is a much better option than eating out by myself!" The friend continued to add that "eating at a restaurant is intended to be shared."

I wouldn't say I disagree entirely. I also love dining with friends or my boyfriend. But I relish the opportunity to sit in solitude, away from life's stresses, observing the world as if in a fishbowl magnified just for me. I know this was a gift my mother gave me. She enjoyed her solitude, reading a book, and lying in the sun (which I now realize my skin was not olive, like hers, so I have paid the price with wrinkles and spots to which I say, sometimes you also learn what not to do also when learning lessons from Mom!)

I remember as a kid coming home from school, I could hear the sounds of the piano being played as I walked up to the front door of my house. Beautiful music, mainly scales but over and over, it just sounded like smooth waves in my ears. But I also knew, the minute I'd open the door, the sound would abruptly stop. My mom loved playing the piano. But it was for herself. She took no pleasure in playing for others but you could hear the years of practice from when she was a kid, gleefully fill the house when you were lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time to eavesdrop.

My mom worked for my father when he grew his auto body shop into a huge success, and they would often go to lunch together. But I remember my dad talking about my mom sometimes taking off early to go shopping - she loved Nordstroms - and then after her solo shopping spree, she’d pick my brothers and me up from school. Sometimes she would take me back to Nordstrom, and she liked taking me to this sandwich shop on the second floor of the mall because she loved the grilled ham and cheese, and I imagined her there sometimes - by herself - after one of her indulgent shopping trips to the mall.

Without explicitly telling me, I knew she ate alone sometimes. So, it never occurred to me that eating alone was in any way lonely. It was a choice to be alone. A privilege. An experience worth taking. Of course, I sometimes took it to the extreme and would pick a gorgeous restaurant on a Friday night when I didn't have either of my boys – when they were with their dad, and I'd book a table for one.

So, call your favorite restaurant and make a reservation— for one.

Maybe eating alone won't bring me any closer to my mom. And it may not be comfortable for you, at first. But I guarantee you'll learn a thing or two about yourself while sitting alone. And the privilege of taking stock of your life, or simply observing, or being is worth it.

Loving myself first is the greatest gift I can give myself and in turn, will allow who I love to appreciate that I know who I am, know what I want, and am freely sharing my love. And I'll hope for the same in return. And whether you have a significant partner in life, or not, the love for yourself and being alone is worth that table reservation to a restaurant you were waiting to go to with someone else. YOU are your own "forever."

Go ahead, call up, and make that reservation… table for one.