I’ve already mentioned how I survived my first solo dining experience, the kind with a folding menu. A laminated folding menu, but a folding menu nonetheless.

Well, I can now proudly say I’ve jumped right into solo dining with both feet. I would call myself a pro, but I want to retain my amateur status in case they add this event to the Olympics. Although, technically, I did get paid. Not for my time, but for the meals at least.

The very same evening after I had my Denny’s lunch experience, I had dinner on my own at the little restaurant in the Holiday Inn, where I was staying. It has a fabric tablecloth, cloth napkins, and a menu with the paper that gets tucked into the little leatherish corners.

I’m not sure if it counts, though, because everyone else in the restaurant was also a solo diner. About nine in all. But they were all men, and all reading newspapers, so I still felt out of place with my short story anthology and my breasts.

Since that fateful evening, I’ve also dined alone at the Mexican restaurant in the Doubletree (where I got moved from the Holiday Inn—long story). This time, I also had a folding menu and cloth table linens, plus I was the only loner in the place. The restaurant wasn’t very busy, so it was just me and a few tables full of two or four people.

Still, it was a hotel restaurant, and you have to imagine single diners aren’t rare in places like that.(As a side note, not part of the progression here, I did have breakfast by myself at the Denny’s among a gaggle of cheerleaders. Unpleasant, but I survived.)

Okay, so then I took the leap. I went to a real restaurant unconnected to a hotel. The Doubletree is across the street from Lloyd Center (Oregon’s largest tax-free shopping mall—whee). And attachd to Lloyd Center is a Stanford’s. It was Saturday night, and I ventured out there. Alone. And more than a little nervous. I mean, what would I do if there were a big waiting list or something?

I only had to wait a few minutes, which was good. I did have to announce myself to the hostess and tell her I was a party of one, in front of the other waiting customers, but it wasn’t so bad. When my table was ready, the hostess asked me if I’d like a magazine (you know, to keep me company, since I’m so lonely and pathetic). I declined. I was shown to my table, which was in a room filled with two large parties in the center and the surrounding booths filled with cozy couples or bustling families. I felt a little self-conscious when I sat down and they whisked away the other table settings, just to announce to the world that I was indeed eating alone and not just waiting for someone.

But I survived. In a real restaurant. Alone.An interesting thing I noticed is that servers are very friendly when you’re dining alone. Maybe it’s a pity thing. Maybe it’s a Portland thing. Or maybe they can focus on you more when you’re alone rather than in a little grouplet.

Previously, I’ve had anxiety about doing things alone. All kinds of things. Ordering takeout by myself causes a little stress, as does hanging out in the library or bookstore for any length of time. The prospect of walking down the aisle of the airplane once it’s in the air is enough to make me hold my bladder for six hours. But maybe I’ll be a little better now.

I know in one part of my brain that none of the strangers out there in the world give a crap about what I do. They’re not even paying attention to me. And even if they are pondering what a loser I am, so what?

I actually liked eating alone. It was nice to not have to carry on a conversation or be witty or sociable for a change. I got to just sit there and read my book and take in the scenery. I could order whatever I wanted and not feel that envy and regret when I see the delicious-looking plate on the other side of the table.

So maybe I’m on my way to being more independent, more comfortable in my own skin.

I’m not saying I’ll be going to the movie theater by myself anytime soon, but it’s a start.