The Ledger

By Patricia McClellan

Being a middle-aged runaway had its moments. For the first time in my life, I was completely on my own. No one was asking me for anything.

If I wanted to cook supper, I did. If I didn’t, a pack of crackers worked just fine. It’s amazing how low your standards for celebration can fall after years of housekeeping.

Freedom sounded wonderful in theory, but sometimes it came with a side of loneliness.

Every day on my way home, I passed a little restaurant that smelled like Grandma’s kitchen. Fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and fresh rolls practically grabbed the steering wheel. I wanted to stop so many times, but I didn’t. I was convinced eating alone would make me look like a loser.

Then one Sunday afternoon, I decided enough was enough.

Armed with all the courage I could muster, I pulled into the parking lot. I even brought a book and my cell phone as emotional support props for someone dining alone.

I walked inside, asked for a table for one, and immediately became convinced everyone in the restaurant was staring at me. Certain they were wondering why a woman was eating alone on a Sunday afternoon, I grabbed my phone and pretended to call someone.

For several minutes, I carried on a lively conversation with a dead phone line.

Then disaster struck.

Halfway through my imaginary conversation, the phone in my hand started ringing. Not only did it ring, but George Strait suddenly announced my predicament at full volume. There I sat with the phone already pressed to my ear, caught red-handed while everyone within earshot could plainly tell I’d been talking to nobody.

The real insult? When I looked to see who was calling, it wasn’t a friend, a family member, or a long-lost admirer.

It was probably a telemarketer.

Looking back, I laugh at that woman sitting at a table for one. The truth was, nobody cared that I was eating alone. They were too busy enjoying their own meals and managing their own embarrassing moments.

That day I learned something important: being alone is not the same thing as being lonely.

Feeling a little braver, I decided my next adventure would be going to a movie by myself.

Not a Tuesday matinee, either. I went on a Saturday night to see a popular love story.

Couples walked in holding hands while I marched in alone like I’d earned a badge of courage.

I bought my ticket, found my seat, and waited for someone to notice.

Nobody did.

Everyone was too busy watching the movie.

I laughed, cried, ate every bite of my popcorn, and didn’t have to share a single kernel.

Maybe being a middle-aged runaway wasn’t about running away after all.

Maybe it was about finding my way back to myself.