Shed, Saturday, Single

“Woah! I am SO full.” Sheila pushes the bowl away from her with deliberate force. She leans an elbow on the back of her chair and starts fanning herself with her free, perfectly manicured hand. “That was sooo spicy, and soooo filling. I can’t believe I ate almost HALF of it!” The rest of us look up guiltily from our own, less than half-full plates, enjoying every mouthful and not even contemplating putting down our forks. “It’s going to be a hard workout at the gym for me tomorrow!” she cackles, smug.

I’m sitting in Shed Café, to celebrate a friend’s birthday. A trendy little bistro on St. Laurent, just north of Sherbrooke, I feel entirely underdressed in this place, under scrutiny from discerning, fashion-expert eyes, and am still slightly sore over the $15 it cost me to park my car as trying to find a place to station one’s vehicle in this effing city is next to impossible. Sheila isn’t helping.

Our plates have been cleared (Sheila graciously declined the waiter's offer to pack up the remainder of her meal to bring home) and apparently, it’s time to get down to business.

“So,” Sheila says, three octaves higher than is necessary. “Who is single here?” She points an accusing finger at me. “Are you?”

“Y y y yes,” I stammer, not sure how to account for what has all of a sudden become a major shortcoming in my character.

“Are you?” She barked at the girl sitting next to me.

The poll was conducted, and the results poured in. Six of the girls at the table were without boyfriends.

“Gawd!” Shelia snapped, slamming both hands down on the table, sloshing the water in the glass I’m holding all around. “You see? THIS is what I’m talking about. Here we are, six gorgeous women, single. Single! What IS that?”

By this time, I should note that heads are starting to swivel in our direction. I’m trying to slink indiscernibly down in my seat.

“I mean, I have gone on more set-ups that I can even COUNT and nothing. Nothing! What IS THIS?”

I’ve heard from my friend that Sheila has indeed been in a frantic search for a boyfriend. But, considering the fact that she’s been in medical school for the past five years, I chalked her singlehood up to her manic schedule. Now, I’m mentally revising that perception.

“Did you hear that Jen and Kevin got engaged?” the girl sitting to my left says, innocently, smiling, bright-eyed. “Isn’t that great?”

“Reeeeally?” Sheila asks, her voice dripping with sickening sweetness. “That’s soooooooooo nice. I can’t believe it. How long have they been engaged? When’s the wedding? What does her dress look like? What does her ring look like? I’m sooooo happy for them. I’m sooooo excited!! So, so, so excited!”

At this point, I’m wondering if there is some sort of a marriage God Sheila feels is keeping tabs on her ability to be happy for the nuptials of other people. Maybe she worries that not showing the proper amount of enthusiasm for someone else’s engagement will be a strike against her, casting her into some sort of spinster purgatory.

I have to say, that Sheila’s obvious insecurity surprises me. She’s a good-looking girl, wicked smart, she’s a doctor of all things and yet, the fact that she is on her own overrides all other aspects of her life.

“So Heeeeather,” she drawls, turning to me. “You live alone. Do you love it? I really like the building you’re in, and wanted to look at it. Do you have a pet?”

This is followed by a series of questions that I assume are part of a checklist she has on the ‘ultimate single girl living alone experience.’ Apparently the fact that I don’t have a cat is a mark against me, that I have a few plants and fluffy white throw blankets are pluses.

The whole thing just made me sad. Sad because I can somewhat relate to her anxiousness about being single, and sad because she’s not able to enjoy something as simple as a friend’s birthday without harping on her lack of a male counterpart.

As the conversation turned to a play-by-play of her last disastrous set-up date, I took the opportunity to tell my friend that I would likely be skipping out after dinner because I wasn’t feeling all that well.

“Oh, sweets,” she says, “don’t worry about it. Feel better. Hey! Why don’t you talk to Sheila! She’s a doctor, after all!”

I look over to where Sheila is now standing, talking to some guy. Her spine looks like it could snap in half at any given moment, she is thrusting her chest out to such a degree. I honestly think if she could have temporarily removed her breasts and physically handed them to the guy for his inspection, she would have.

I turn back to my friend. “It’s ok hon. I’ll be fine. You go and have a good time.”

I walked back to my car, politely declined the offer from the parking attendant to take me out to dinner (It’s 1 a.m., who the hell goes OUT for dinner at 1 a.m.?) and start my drive home. Alone. And I was perfectly fine with that.