Monday, July 26

Table for one

I went to the travel agency yesterday to inquire about the rates and other packages. It seems to me that  people traveling alone are not only taxed more, but charged more. Hotel rooms are cheaper when there’s two or more of you. (Multiple personalities not counted. Darn.)

The travails of the single person not only ends there. If you go inside a restaurant and ask for a table for one, you will be given the nastiest seat in the house—unless you kick some ass and insist on sitting on the nice cushioned “cubicles.” (Cubicle is not the right word, but it’s the first thing that comes to mind, to paraphrase Chuck Palahniuk in Choke.) Then you become paranoid that everyone is silently snickering at you because you’re alone. And when you ask the waiter for his recommendation, the dish set before you is undeniably spicy—I picked eight—eight!—whole red labuyos out of the chicken before I could eat it. What was he trying to say--Hey, lady, put some spice in your life? Of course, that really must be just paranoia.

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