The waiters walk past you, glancing slightly and then continuing on to the next table. They ignore you, but not consciously or even maliciously – they think you’re waiting for your guest. The other people around me are being served coffee and juice, some have bread baskets and other tables are dining on hot eggs and omelettes. “They” are a couple, I am at a table for one.
I watch the room and trace the pattern of the waiters going from table to table, and I’m getting a little annoyed as I wait for someone to come over. The woman who seated me at the restaurant knows I’m only one person – she seated me for one person – surely, she told the other people I was only one person. Then I realize: I’m sitting at a table for one waiting for something to happen. Why? I don’t wait when it comes to my career, why am I waiting to be served eggs?
Now would be the most appropriate time to transition the story into the metaphor the eggs symbolize – being single, and ‘unfertilized’ – but that’s too cliche for me. In fact, the point isn’t about the missing huevos rancheros, or the fact that Mr. Huevo hasn’t galloped down my street to whisk me away to his ranchero. The point is, as single women, unconsciously we wait, but for what?
Sitting alone at Cocotal (one of the resort’s restaurants open for breakfast) I’m admittedly a little teary – maybe it’s because I feel like the cubic zirconia in a sea of diamond rings, or maybe it’s because I’ve been awake for almost two hours without caffeine. Whatever the case, my patience has ended and my single-woman-superhero-psycho-independence is taking over. I’m done waiting.
I stood up, walked over to the waiters station and poured myself cup of hot coffee. I asked one of the servers to place an order of huevos rancheros and, just for added effect, I took the pot of coffee and gracefully walked back to my table for one.