33. Table for Two, I Guess?
July 12, 2023
This is a story about how weird I am. A slightly awkward encounter—absolutely made weirder by writing about it, but I just couldn’t get it out of my head until I did. So, here you go. :) Click the link for the “read aloud” version.
I tell myself to just ignore this guy—which is like telling myself to not picture a polar bear. I should’ve moved over when I had the chance. I still have that chance.
Yet, here I sit.
On the days I drive my son down to his day program, I can’t stay holed up in my home office. I’m forced to find someplace to be “alone” in public. This library usually has a better vibe for me than a noisy café, but today, it’s more people-y. Probably because it’s a bazillion degrees outside. We’re all dreaming about polar bears.
This four-seat table was the only empty one in the row of study tables along the windows. I snagged one quarter of it and hoped no one would need to share.
But within five minutes, a guy wearing a white face mask and lugging a couple of books came out of the stacks, glanced at the other full tables, and approached mine. I mumbled, “Oh, do you need to sit here?” and shifted my book bag and iPad closer.
He proceeded to pull out the chair directly in front of me (not the seat diagonally across from me, which would’ve given us both more room) and—without so much as a Mind if I…?—he plopped down, dropping his books, car keys, and phone on the table.
He didn’t make eye contact, opened a book, and began to read.
While I am very relieved he’s not looking to chit-chat, I still feel squeezed. But I don’t ask him to move over to the empty side of the table. I don’t move either. I don’t want to seem rude, I don’t want to make a fuss.
My inner feminist scolds—you’re too meek, you’re so conditioned to not speak up for your own needs, you’re letting a man crowd you.
No, this is fine, my inner over-accommodating mom-voice says. We both have enough room. I just…can’t look straight ahead.
I angle my body to the right.
My new friend, his thick legs stretched out beneath our table, ankles crossed, reads a page or two, taps his phone, glances around, flips a page.
I fiddle with writing for an hour and a half. I can’t get the white bear out of my head.
I think about my son’s “social interaction” goals, how he can’t respond to strangers’ questions, but how he often leans in, almost touching noses, when he’s interested in someone.
I think about how my son continued to wear his mask at his day program long after it was no longer required, because that rule, difficult to learn at first, had become part of his comforting routine.
I wonder why I didn’t move over when this guy first sat down, with a quick Here, I’ll give you a little more space gesture. Now it feels too late.
My table mate’s book is called Reality is Broken. On its stark white cover, the title’s multicolored letters are cracked across an image of shattered glass. I refuse to stare long enough to catch the subtitle, pretending to be engaged in my own reality. Later I look it up: Why games make us better and how they can change the world.
The blurb says: “[G]ames are fulfilling real human needs in ways that reality is not….game designers have hit on core truths about what makes us happy, from social connection to having satisfying work to do.”
I kick my study partner’s shoe under the table.
I say, “Oh, sorry.” He whispers, “It’s OK.”
I sift through rough drafts about my son. I think about how we want to teach him about “hidden” social rules so he doesn’t get hurt, but also encourage him to be himself; help him find a healthy balance of companionship and solitude.
Maybe the kindest thing would be to tell this man that he’s sitting too close—his next encounter might be with someone who isn’t as nice as me.
But I also think, no. Don’t I value inclusivity? Let people sit wherever they want. Maybe this chair is his “spot” and I’m the one who is crowding him.
Who is more socially awkward? The person who chooses to sit right next to a stranger in a not-crowded movie theatre, or the person who doesn’t get up when they feel uncomfortable? Hey, maybe a therapist will join us at our table to sort out these questions.
When the next study table clears out, neither of us make a move.
We stay, chillin’ in our chosen seats. Not thinking about polar bears.
"Try to pose for yourself this task: not to think of a polar bear, and you will see that the cursed thing will come to mind every minute." — Fyodor Dostoevsky’s 1863 observation that social psychologists use to help people “suppress the white bears” of unwanted thoughts.
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Ha that is an interesting situation making for a good read! I love how you looked up the book later to check the byline, that is totally what I would have done too. Also after remaining seated in my original spot 🤣
Hmm new bucket list item: visit awesomely quiet and unpopulated libraries around the world!