"Dining,” someone once said to me, when the subject of eating alone in restaurants came up, “is something you have to do with another person. After all, the prefix ‘di-’ means two.”
Maybe I was overwhelmed by this dubious morphology, because I don’t remember how I responded. But I can feel my face warming with wrath as I remember that conversation. It revealed so much about the divergent instincts of introverts and extroverts, and the arrogant abuse the former often must endure.
As an introvert, I like to eat alone in restaurants. I enjoy it – the time for reflection, jotting new ideas for projects, absorbing the ambience. This is not a confession, though many will think of it that way, as if I had just admitted to membership of a nudist splinter faction of Freemasons.
