It was cold, rainy and sunny with traces of clouds hiding behind the sunrays, just another confusing January afternoon in New York City. This was my third time going out to a place called Drunken Dumpling on 1st Avenue in Manhattan’s East Village. On the way, I was reminded of the thing my therapist told me after I told her about my fear of going alone anywhere in the city: “I think you’re depending on other people for your happiness” . As soon as she said this, I couldn’t help but think that she was completely wrong in understanding me, something I assumed she wouldn’t have trouble with considering it was the basic criteria of her profession. Before I started therapy, I did not want to listen to what a stranger said about me but everybody around me told me to give it a try. Ever since I heard her diagnosis, A part of me had been scared if what she said that day was true. She had already warned me that my anxiety would try to stop me in every way possible, but this was my chance to overcome it. It was high time that I made an attempt, at least.
My anxiety had convinced me beyond any doubt that going alone would make me feel lonelier, and I was already scared of getting stabbed like that person on the subway the year before the last. New York City is dangerous, Dad had warned me, but the therapist and my friends thought the opposite. I was told to go out and do something I love the most, all by myself. I knew I was going to eat something. Food has been my only refuge in the face of anxiety and I had a really strong dumpling craving after I read an essay called “Eating the Hyphen” for my writing class. The writer, Lily Wong, mentioned a weird way of eating dumplings. Her way of eating dumplings involved forks just like mine. It obviously seemed normal to someone like me, who did not know how to use the 2 pieces of wood that Satan designed himself. I was a special case, or felt like one until I read her piece. But the reasons we both used a fork was different. She used forks to squish the dumpling’s juices out. For her, the forks were just the sidekick that did the job of setting up the stage for the protagonist. For me, the fork was the real deal. Chopsticks make me more anxious than any other object, except shoelaces. Everybody in my family and my immediate friend circle has tried teaching me how to use them. “Oh, it’s so easy, you just hold one like a pencil and the other loosely above it,” everybody has said. Little do they know I was the kid who learned to tie shoelaces toward the end of high school. Shoelaces and Chopsticks are the same things for me. A pair of objects that had to come together in a specific way and I am just bad at identifying what that way is.
I was now standing at the door of Drunken Dumpling. This was a make it or break it situation. I really hoped I wouldn’t break it. That would not be an ideal situation. I entered and ordered the standard chicken dumplings. The restaurant was cozy and small, unlike the dumplings. They looked bigger than last time. Had they grown in size? Or were they the same but looked smaller because my friends dissected them to bits both the times I had come earlier? Probably the latter. I stared at the dumplings for a minute and then realized I had forgotten to ask for a fork. Ahh, I wish I would have asked for it while ordering the dumplings. I could have avoided the embarrassment of going back to the now crowded self-service counter. I could have done so many things. Studied a bit more, exercised a little more and enrolled for one more internship, maybe? I could have done so much!
“NO!”, I screamed internally. I was not going out on a tangent again, I was not going to let fear and anxiety control me again. This was my time to shine!
So I went up to the counter, asked for a fork. I was already shaking. My friends had asked for forks for me before this, while making fun of me for not knowing the subtle art of eating with a chopstick. How was it so easy for them? Am I normal? No, I don’t have time for this!
The six beautiful (and polite) words came out of my mouth, “May I have a fork, please?”
The cashier smiled at me, and I smiled nervously back. Two people standing beside me who were in the middle of ordering something stopped for a second and just looked at me blankly. The cashier then went into the kitchen behind and got me a fork. He was still smiling. I was expressionless, the smile had faded. I took the fork with shaky hands and went back to my table.
My dumplings were waiting for me. I took out my fork and began eating. The dumplings were hot, juicy, meaty and just the right amount of oily. Victory was supposed to taste sweet, but mine was rather meaty. And then, it struck me, this was me, eating with a fork at an Asian restaurant all by myself.
I was smiling again, out of happiness. I went back to my room and called my mum. I told her I had successfully gone out by myself, asked for a fork in front of a crowd and eaten dumplings with it, all in the same day! Mum was confused. The next day, I shared this with my therapist, she understood it all and even cheered for me without any noise.