Lately, I’ve been on this kick.

You see, it started accidentally.

My friends and I had plans to see “The Head and The Heart” at Turner Hall a couple weeks ago, which quickly unraveled when the show sold out before they got their tickets. I’d bought mine in advance and had my heart set on seeing this band.

So I did. Alone. And with a great deal of anxiety.

As soon as I walked into the venue, I swerved to the bar as if magnetized and ordered myself a beer, then weaseled my way up to the front of the crowd. I stood there, bobbing and nodding just like everyone else, and as I scanned my periphery with elevator eyes, I noticed that I couldn’t separate individuals from couples and groups. We were all a group. It didn’t
matter that I came alone, because I wasn’t alone anymore. And just as I was having these thoughts, the girl next to me hip-bumped me, locked eyes with me and said, “Hey, Bridget!”

I had been blindly standing right next to my friend Sarah for the entire opening act.

I definitely didn’t expect to be that lucky, but even if I had been surrounded by strangers like I thought I was, I still would’ve put that concert in my top ten. It was a great show.

Pleased with the ease of going stag, I decided to tackle one of my greatest fears: eating alone.

I should explain that the thought of this truly used to wreck me. In my dorm days, I would eat vending machine Bugles and Snickers in my room if my friends weren’t around for dinner.

I loved their company so much that I couldn’t tolerate dining solo.

I’ve been conditioned to think that way, and so has the rest of the world. We can’t distinguish the difference between “lonely” and “alone.” When I worked at a restaurant in high school, my fellow hosts and I treated lone diners like they had two heads. We felt it our civic duty to hide their solitude by asking if they wanted to sit at the bar instead of a table, and, when they declined, we’d smile sympathetically and slide the extra plate and silverware off a two-top. It was a sad scene to us — nobody likes to eat alone.

But how could I know without having tried it?

I decided to rectify that last Friday afternoon, though it wasn’t easy, and for reasons different than you’d expect.

As I waited for the bus, my friend Jim saw me on his way home from class and asked where I was headed.

“The Third Ward,” I told him. “I’m going to grab some lunch.”

“Alone?” he asked. “Can I come? I’d love to eat lunch with you!”

I felt awkward having to turn him down, but I was determined to go through with my promise to myself and not spoil the experience with my friend’s good company.

I ate at Coquette Cafe, a place I’ve been meaning to try for years. The host was kind, seating me next to a window for entertainment, and my server was, too, making friendly small talk but asking no intrusive questions. I didn’t feel lonely, like I’d expected to. I just felt independent.

And that independence had benefits. Making a reservation for one meant I could choose a place at any time on any day I wanted — no need to consider my friends’ schedules, budgets or taste buds. My math skills are so atrocious that splitting the bill is more like splitting the atom, so I was thrilled to bypass that confusion. Maybe I caught on late to the perks of eating alone, but I’m glad I did.

As the weekend came to an end, I decided to give my independent side one more test, and attend Mass alone.

But “alone” isn’t the right word. It’s an illusion. Because it’s when you’re “alone,” when you have to hold a stranger’s hand in prayer, that it’s easiest to feel the community around you.

This fall break, I dare you to do one thing without anyone but yourself. I promise that if you don’t end up running into a friend on your adventure, you’ll make a new one: yourself.