So it was a kid-free weekend, and I thought to myself, "Maybe I'll just order pizza.
Lonely, lonely pizza. What the hell, it's better than going out alone.
Ikea even makes a table just for lonely, pathetic shut-ins like me:
But I changed my mind, and decided to drive fifteen minutes up the road for some really terrific Mexican food instead. Take-out, of course, because I could never eat a meal by myself without feeling like everyone in the room was silently judging me for my alone-ness.
So I got to the restaurant and I waited my turn at the counter behind a few other orders, and finally, it was time to pick up my chicken enchiladas in verde sauce.
Except the girl behind the counter was a million miles away. I had to repeat my order to her twice. Then she mixed up the bags. Then she miscounted my change. She apologized profusely, and her coworker smiled.
"This one - she's in love," she said. "You know how it is....when you're in love. She's not thinking so straight."
The other girl blushed, and checked her phone, and blushed again. And I smiled.
Yes, I know. I know how it is when you're in love.
I know the butterflies, and the tightness in your chest, and the feeling of not being able to breathe at the same time as feeling like you've just gotten air after living in a vacuum for eons.
I remember it all. The fuzzy brain. The not-exactly-inhabiting-your-body. The endless time between meetings and phone calls and texts.
And I took my mexican food home and I ate it in silence and I told myself someday.
Someday, I'll feel all that again.
And the enchiladas were really good, but not as good as the memory of what it used to be like.
Being in love.