On Friday, I treated myself to a meal at the Skillet Diner in Capitol Hill. While I waited for my sandwich, a friendly tattooed waiter in a red flannel shirt served me a fruit fresca. I sipped on my drink and savored the strawberry, celery and lime combination. I poured myself a glass of water. Then I began writing in my journal at the bar counter, effectively signaling to everyone that I am a deeply introspective and creative person. Five or ten minutes passed. I put down my pen and glanced at the television. Then I checked my phone for sports news. Still waiting on the sandwich, I watched the waitstaff restocking sugar packets and refilling drinks. I observed a tattooed customer seated on a barstool eating his sandwich. He was finishing his meal and eager to get the bill.
Whenever I'm eating alone at a restaurant, it feels like an eternity. There's only the conversation in my head to keep me entertained. It's strange that I feel the need to be busy or at least look busy. I was happy there was a television. It gave me an excuse to look up. The sound was off, but its pictures told me things: "Football Player Fast. Catch Good." Nothing insightful, just a loop of sports highlights. Athletes in slow motion celebrations.
One year from now, my dining experiences will be radically different. I will have a son or a daughter on my lap or close to my chest. I will not look like a struggling writer or an educated vagrant. I will be a doting father, making sure the diaper is dry and the baby is comfortable and amused. I'll be waiting for the child to wake up or take a nap, studying the movement of his or her eyelids like a sleep scientist. My backpack will be replaced by a baby bag. Books, papers, and headphones left at home. Toys and bottles and butt wipes at the ready. Things in case of a baby emergency - that's what I'll remember when I'm leaving the house.
Next year, as I stumble out the door, with an infant in a sling, I will no longer be reduced to the lonely decisions of an unemployed man:
What coffee shop is best for my concentration?
Do I deserve a scone?
Is it too late in the afternoon for caffeine?
Should I feel bad about not having a job?
What's the capital of Cameroon?
What is the absolute quickest way to get rich, without compromising myself?
What is the absolute quickest way to get rich, with compromising myself?
If I made a movie of my life, what would it be called? "National Treasure 3?"
Instead I will think of him or her...the tiny person pressed gently against my shirt, perhaps drooling and asleep, or noisy and awake, and how to keep that person happy.
Little BeastHawk or RainUnit.
Names pending.
Definitely in favor of a first name with capital letters, like LeBron.
Whenever I'm eating alone at a restaurant, it feels like an eternity. There's only the conversation in my head to keep me entertained. It's strange that I feel the need to be busy or at least look busy. I was happy there was a television. It gave me an excuse to look up. The sound was off, but its pictures told me things: "Football Player Fast. Catch Good." Nothing insightful, just a loop of sports highlights. Athletes in slow motion celebrations.
Next year, as I stumble out the door, with an infant in a sling, I will no longer be reduced to the lonely decisions of an unemployed man:
What coffee shop is best for my concentration?
Do I deserve a scone?
Is it too late in the afternoon for caffeine?
Should I feel bad about not having a job?
What's the capital of Cameroon?
What is the absolute quickest way to get rich, without compromising myself?
What is the absolute quickest way to get rich, with compromising myself?
If I made a movie of my life, what would it be called? "National Treasure 3?"
Instead I will think of him or her...the tiny person pressed gently against my shirt, perhaps drooling and asleep, or noisy and awake, and how to keep that person happy.
Little BeastHawk or RainUnit.
Names pending.
Definitely in favor of a first name with capital letters, like LeBron.
