My Own Ground Zero

I haven't ever had to start over like this. My sweet mama keeps saying - it's just like when you moved all those times when you were in your 20s, but it's not. Not even a little bit. Not even the moves that I made myself, not to mention the moves I made with the Mr.

Grocery bills have been crazy high these days, and it's because I'm having to buy things like a pair of scissors to cut up chickens in the kitchen, or a tea kettle, or a dish drainer. Not to mention the food - I was trying to make a meal the other night and realized there's no garlic in the kitchen. When is there no garlic? I always have garlic. It's a strange sensation to walk down every aisle in the grocery store and put things in my cart.

I was out at lunch today and saw an old friend I lost in the divorce. I dropped my gaze and backed out of the store I was in without making eye contact or saying a word. It's really ground zero in more ways than just my pantry.

My roommate was gone all last week, and I spent the week alone for the first time in almost two decades. I tried, and succeeded, in filling the hours of my day, but sooner or later I ended back up at my loft, getting ready for bed in the stillness. Not even a kitty cat around to break up the quiet.

Then, a well-meaning friend said this: If you don't want to be alone, don't. Go someplace. So I did. She suggested coffeeshops, but I'm pretty sure she meant "bars." Around the corner from the loft is an old converted gas station run by three firemen. Other than the three of them, there's no hired personnel; the bar staff are regulars who work for tips. The bathroom is on the side of the building and requires key access. There are no iceboxes; drinks are kept cold in Igloo coolers behind the bar. They serve some food, but mostly it's of the rib/smoked meat variety with very minimal vegetable interaction (peanuts are technically a plant, right?) Smoking inside isn't allowed, but as it is an old gas station, once the bay doors are open on nice days it doesn't make much of a difference if smoking is or isn't allowed inside. All in all, I have to say it's a very strange place.

I fit right in. And I love it.

Twice last week with Regina gone, I packed up my read of the day, which currently is a re-read of the classic Anne of Green Gables. Right now, I can relate to a red-headed orphan girl carving out a new life for herself in a new home, making new friends.

I took off the book jacket so it was less obvious that I was reading a little girls book, but I think the secret is out because the book has lots of pictures in it. In any event, twice last week I slipped down to the corner bar after supper, curled up on the odd double bar stools made from old packing crates, and slowly sipped a Coors Lite while catching up on the latest in Avonlea.

And lo and behold... I became not alone. I'm meeting new people, and if I get uncomfortable or feel like I'm being picked up, I can hide behind Anne of Green Gables. It works like a charm. If I have to become a bar regular, I'd like to be known as the divorcee who comes in once or twice a week, drinks two beers over a two hour time period while reading cutting edge juvenile literature from the 1920s.

Good thing I own the whole series.