In an effort to practice writing for writing’s sake, I am trying something a little new. The Daily Post has issued an intriguing challenge that I must accept. We shall see where it takes me.
The worst part about sitting at the bar is the constant feeling of being in the way. When seated, I am incapable of pushing in the stool and am all too conscious of my body jutting out. In order to pass behind me, a fellow diner must excuse themselves to side-step between my back and the back of another person in a proper chair. At least this other can draw themselves in. I am forced into a clumsy shuffle, inching my stool forward leg by leg and moving maybe half a centimetre.
I could stand, of course, and push the tall chair in. But that seems even more awkward. I picture myself this way, still chewing on my turkey and avocado sandwich, blouse disheveled, hair flying in a static mess, leaping into an upright position and dropping my book on the floor and the mental image is enough to make me cringe.
It is far nicer to sit at a table or a booth. There is room for all my things and if I sit with my back to the wall I never have to worry about acknowledging strangers. Yet, as I am almost always alone, this seems an even worse breach of etiquette. How rude of me to take up so much space during a busy lunch hour. The dirty looks and annoyed comments – which exist only in my mind – are enough to cause distress.
And so I remain at the uncomfortable bar on the awkward stool, hoping no one will need to get by before I leave.