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<h5 style="padding-left: 210px;">Photo by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/cmoewes/">Chris Moewes</a></h5>
Soon after my first husband and I separated, in 2003, I bought the book <a href="http://www.amazon.com/How-Be-Alone-Jonathan-Franzen/dp/0312422164"><em>How to Be Alone</em></a> by Jonathan Franzen.

It's kind of funny, when I think about it now. I had read enough of Franzen's earlier work to know I wasn't buying a practical, how-to guide that would actually give me strategies for being alone.

But I was definitely drawn to the title—to the very idea of being alone, and to the concept that you could learn to do it better.

Keep in mind, I'm an extrovert. Without a doubt, I am energized by being around other people, thinking out loud and sharing ideas. I had also, essentially, never lived alone in the 33 years before my first husband moved out. I knew I had a lot to learn about this being alone business.

<strong>One of the first things I learned was that "alone" and "lonely" are two different things.</strong> My greatest fear about divorce was a fear of loneliness, but I quickly discovered that being with someone in a distant marriage is much lonelier than being alone.

Being alone is actually defined as being "apart or isolated from others." Clearly there are many different ways to be alone, and I've tried my hand at several of them. After getting a divorce and quitting my "real job" for freelancing, I even cultivated an affection for certain ways of being alone, which is something I didn't think I'd ever embrace.

But there are definitely moments when "being alone" tips into the category of "lonely." It just so happens that I had the opportunity to identify two such moments just this week.
<h4>Alone, with kids</h4>
The first incident occurred Tuesday. Jason was entertaining clients from out of town for the evening, so it was just the girls and I. Being in single parent mode is nothing new, but on Tuesday we were all more tired than usual. The after school hours stretched into dusk and then to darkness. The girls bickered with each other, and needed snacks and rides to piano lessons. They interrupted me repeatedly with questions about math homework and crocheting projects, while I tried to finish a blog post. They busied themselves with scissors and glue and paper and yarn, turning the serene living room into something quite the opposite.

Eventually they made it clear (through button-pushing and tears) that they were getting hungry. Oh right. Jason wouldn’t be home at any moment to rescue me, either by taking over in the kitchen or by taking over with the kids. Memories of single parenting hit me like a unpleasant dousing with icy water.

It's not so much that the situation required two adults, four hands, or two authoritative voices (although that never hurts). Technically, I could do everything that needed to be done on my own—I had done so for many months, when the girls were much younger and needed even more from me.

No, the kind of aloneness I felt comes from recognizing, all at once, what's undeniably lacking in an overwhelming moment: camaraderie. It's a realization that no one's on your side—there's no moral support, no one to roll your eyes and be sarcastic with, or to commiserate with. There's no one to take a deep breath and forge ahead with.

<strong>I was frustrated and annoyed, and suddenly I realized no one else in the room understood how I felt. That's when alone becomes lonely.</strong>
<h4>A table for one</h4>
The very next evening, I was sitting alone in a restaurant in St. Louis, eating dinner after a long day of traveling followed by client meetings.

Eating alone in public is always a curious activity. Some people do it all the time, of course, so I’m sure they don’t think twice about it. But when you're married, have children, and rarely travel for business, eating a meal takes some getting used to, every time.

It's not like riding a bike for the first time each spring, when the skills and balance and feel of it come instantly back. It's more like putting on a brand-new pair of cowboy boots: Each time it feels new and stiff, and slightly constrictive. You feel self-conscious—not quite like yourself in your movements or your perception of how you look. (Yes, I happen to know a bit about cowboy boots because I worked at a dude ranch in Colorado one summer.)

Why is this true about eating alone, but not about any other alone activity? Think about it. There’s nothing odd about driving, biking or walking alone. Nothing strange about sitting in a park alone with a book, or being in a café alone. You can even dance alone in a crowded club, do yard work alone, go shopping alone, and be a tourist alone. I've gone to movies and concerts alone, and although I've longed for someone to deconstruct the experience with afterwards, it doesn't feel strange.

So what <em>is</em> it about eating a meal by yourself, with others nearby?

When I was younger, I think my discomfort with eating alone probably was centered more around worrying “What is everyone else in the restaurant thinking? Do they feel sorry for me, and imagine I have no friends?â€

Now, I can honestly say that’s not it. When I'm eating alone, I’m not thinking about what anyone else is thinking (isn’t that the chief beauty of growing older?). I’m thinking about all the thoughts swirling around in my head, and how they naturally want to fly free when I eat. It’s an automatic response: fork goes to mouth, food goes in, words come out.

Eating is inherently communal. Especially dinner. I guess that's why I'd rather sit alone in a crowded restaurant than order room service—just being around other people and hearing the hum of other conversations is better than nothing.

But still. <strong>A plate of food in front of me, and all of those thoughts in my head, with nowhere to go. That's when alone becomes lonely.</strong>

So what good does it do to identify these personal tipping points? Good question. If only I had someone to eat dinner with, I'm sure we could figure it out, together.

Or at the very least, we could feel confused together, which is much better than feeling confused alone.