eating alone

As usual, I sit by myself toward the back of the dining hall. People look at me as I set down my tray and pull out my newspaper, feeling sorry for me, I imagine. Some of the nicer girls, I swear, murmur a prayer for me over their overcooked chicken and potato salad. Bless them, I think before I start to shovel a mountain of salad into my mouth. But there is reason behind my being alone. Truly, this is what I find most awkward—trying to maintain a constant conversation with someone else while eating. Especially with the foods I enjoy. I hate to have to watch their expression change as I dribble a mixture of cottage cheese, raisins, lettuce, and Italian dressing down my chin. As they try to ignore my feeding faux pas, and continue with their account of the day, maybe I reach for a napkin and knock over the three glasses of juice, milk, and coffee in front of me. Maybe I laugh at myself, or mumble an apology, only to increase the ever present food dribble collecting on my lower lip. This is what eating with other people is like for me. It’s just more considerate of me not to ask anyone to accompany me to dinner.

As I sit there, and occasionally notice as people stare or a glance at THE ONLY GIRL SITTING ALONE IN THE DINING HALL, I wonder if it’s more than my eating habits that have brought me to this state of solitude. Am I indeed very different? I may not be wearing Victoria Secret sweatpants stuffed into my Ugg boots, but I’m certainly not entirely out of fashion. Quickly, I do a once over just to make sure I haven’t committed a fashion faux pas, as well. My tapered pants are stashed safely away in my closet. I’m not wearing oversized glasses, and my skirt is a reasonable three inches below my belly button. All good.

But then I start to think of less shallow attributes, more peculiar acts of strangeness in which I indulge. Today I bought an eight-dollar bottle of biodegradable laundry detergent. Now, on this devoted trek toward environmentalist justice, I do occasionally stop to consider that there are just one too many options for the activist to prove him or herself. But if there is one thing I have learned from my father, it is that our guilt shall know no limits. I might be a poor college students with four hundred dollars left to live on for the next ten months, but god knows I will not be held responsible for the phosphates killing off all those poor darling fish and bacteria in the Athens’ streams. God knows. I shrug. Maybe it’s all in the music I listen to, and that my favorite playlist combines a selection of 1998 MTV Grind classics and a new instrumental cd titled "Monkey Chant." Perhaps.

I return to an article in the newspaper and take another slobbery bite of yellow pepper. My over salivation is a fortunate thing, I tell people. I will never ever ever know the pains of a cavity. Though I try to feel absorbed in the current debate over Hillary Clinton’s crying episode in the New Hampshire primary, I’m distracted by the conversations bubbling around me. I have to admit, every time I hear the mention of beer pong or flip cup, I feel more justified in my choice to abstain from conversing with almost every undergrad on campus.

By the time I’ve heard three accounts of drunken Friday night stupor I am nearly done with my salad, and happily notice I’ve managed to spread only about half of it on the table. I finish my third glass of soymilk (my mild OCD forces me to sample every variety the dining hall offers), and carry the tray to the conveyor belt. Before I exit the dining hall, though, I fill up my customary to-go cup for later night snacking. First goes in a healthy glob of peanut butter, a few sticks of celery, and a quaint sprinkling of granola to top it all of. Yes, you know I get off on my low cholesterol levels. I glance at a few girls, horrified by my concoction as they toast their little fucking English muffin pizzas to near perfection. I tear off a piece of celery, chewing noisily as I watch their mild disgust grow into complete and utter fear. They hurry off and leave me wanting to throw some ham and a few chocolate chips into my snack cup, just to see their reaction. Of course, I then realize I would also have to throw in some of my own dandruff, completing my transformation into that crazy girl from the Breakfast Club. Probably the only movie character I’ve actually felt a connection to. However, I resist this final temptation, accepting that it really wouldn’t do my reputation any good. Instead, I walk out of the building, hoping that, because no one in there has ever heard by entirely American voice, that they just attribute my strangeness to the thought that maybe I’m European.