Just One?

I am an independent, relatively self-assured, fully grown-up and technically adult person. This means I am perfectly capable of doing the things of life on my own: I can go to a movie, dine in a restaurant, sit in a cool bar enjoying a delicious beverage, or try a new class at the gym without requiring the company of another. Yet, when I go out to dinner, I usually have a companion, or several. When I head to the bar for a drink, it's because I'm meeting someone. A movie alone? That's me, at home, on my couch. My out-in-the-world free time tends to be about maximizing socialization, so if I'm out having fun, I'm probably not alone.

Maybe, too, there's more to it than fun. Sometimes, being alone in the pursuit of activities usually done with a companion — as a woman in particular — can seem a bit, well, uncomfortable. As social scientist and author Bella DePaulo, who's done extensive research into the perceptions we hold of singles, told me, "When they are out and about, women in particular may feel safer when they are with other people. In public, people feel less self-conscious when they are with other people than when they are alone." It's true, sometimes having a companion around feels a bit like wearing a seat belt: Less freeing, perhaps, but better for you and generally advisable. At the same time, feeling dependent on another in order to do what you feel like doing in any given moment is far from empowering. Should you really be confined to aloneness indoors, just because a friend or date isn't available? Of course not. That's not only old-fashioned, it's also silly.

Tired of being stuck in my inside rut, and inspired by DePaulo's words — "If you know that you can do things alone, that gives you a certain power " — I decided to embark on an experiment. I would do a variety of things that I might not otherwise do alone, and see how it felt, what happened, if my reticence was somehow appropriate, or if the joys of doing things alone would prove greater than any false fear. Here's what happened.

The Bar Alone — Part One

My first attempt to sit at a bar and drink a sophisticated beverage on my own, with no one to accompany me, was a little bit of a cheat. That is to say, I was meeting a friend at a local spot, but only for an hour, after which she had to go to a wedding that was being held nearby. We had a couple glasses of wine and she departed, but buoyed by my wine and the spirit of my experiment, I decided to stay behind and go it alone. I had another glass of wine, and another — my being alone at the bar resulted in some extremely attentive service — and pretty soon I was making pleasant conversation with strangers and thinking I probably should have eaten hours ago. Things got a little bleary, but I recall scrawling my phone number on a receipt after the bartender requested it, paying my tab, and leaving, fairly happy with my experience. That had not been so bad, until the headache the next morning, and the regret: Don't flirt with the bartender of your local establishment! It can lead to awkwardness. Also, yes, this seemed to prove that the odds increase in being hit on (by your bartender) as a woman alone.

Spin Class Alone

The thought of going to a new class at the gym all by myself strikes fear in my heart. I like to know what I'm doing and I like to look like I know what I'm doing, but in new situations, especially physical ones, this is nearly impossible. So, while the varied and kooky-sounding classes at the gym sound intriguing, I am far more likely to stick with the familiar in a workout — unless I can get a friend to go with me and somehow ease the first-time anxiety because we'll both look like fools while trampoline-boot-kick-pilates-camping.

However, this exercise in doing things solo meant I had to at least try some new form of exercise on my own. I chose a spin class, because it's dark and I feel fairly comfortable on a bike. I headed in, claimed a machine, sat on it, and started to pedal while listening to the women next to me — who'd come in together — chat about their boyfriends and jobs. Once the class began I was too busy thinking about when it would be over to have time for other considerations, like what I looked like, if I was doing it right, or if anyone thought I was a loser for doing spin class on my own. (If someone thought that, truly, they should be working out harder.) Afterward, we all clapped for the instructor, because in a gym class, you're really not alone at all, and I went home, sweaty and satisfied and calories burned. I would definitely do that again.

Stoop-Sitting Alone

My little apartment is in a brownstone in Brooklyn that's attached to a lovely stoop, those stairs at the front of the building that allow access and also are perfect for perching to watch the world go by. Sometimes my neighbors sit on the stoop, enjoying the weather when the weather's nice, and sometimes strangers station themselves there for a rest. Friends admire the stoop, locals covet it, and yet, I've never taken advantage of it myself. Even though the stoop is technically very nearly an extension of my apartment, it feels exposed (and it is, it's outside!). But people who stoop-sit appear to be having a wonderful time, so I decided to try it. I went downstairs, sat, and watched people pass by. Many of them watched me in return, not always smiling. The height of the stoop lends a kind of power, though, regardless of how agreeable those below happen to be — you are the queen of your domain, which you survey — and the proximity to one's actual home is ideal. If it rains, if you get hungry, if you need to use the bathroom, if you get bored and want to catch the Law and Order marathon, you can simply go inside and do that. The only thing is, I might not want to solo stoop sit in lengthy stints because the best part of people-watching, after all, is pointing people out to your friends.

Dining Alone

Eating alone is probably the alone-behavior I most eschew. Perhaps this is because it's frequently seen as such an intimate activity; you dine out with dates or very good friends; you dine in by yourself, because, I think, there is a fear that dining alone in public means you couldn't find anyone to go with you, and therefore, you're sad and lonely. Also, I always think to myself, why spend the money eating out alone when I can cook for myself, sit on the couch, and watch a good show while eating?

In order to fight my preconceived notions, I took myself out, just me and an excellent book and my iPhone, to a restaurant in my neighborhood. When I walked in, the waiter smiled. "Just one?" he said. "Sit wherever you like." "Just one," I agreed, and found a table in a corner with a view of the room.

Strangely, though, or maybe not strange at all, I was not the only person dining by myself. Also in the restaurant were couples, and groups of three and four, chatting noisily, but most of all there were singles — a woman working on a laptop, a woman talking to her mom on the phone (without my own companion, I could hear their conversation), a woman reading a book, and a man silently eating his meal and staring out the front window. We could have bonded together and become a foursome, but why? Doing it each our own way was far more comfortable.

I placed my order and it came immediately, and then I set to work eating my chicken curry salad. One major problem of dining out alone is coordinating book-page-turning with bites of food and not making a total mess of yourself. I recommend ordering something that can be eaten with a fork if you're going to try to read. As for the fear that if you're dining alone you're being judged, the fact of the matter may be that we're all being judged, no matter what we do. According to a study in which DePaulo and two colleagues showed mall-shoppers photos of people dining alone and with others and asked for their impressions, she told me, "What the shoppers thought of the solo diners was no different than what they thought of the same diners when they appeared to be out with one other person or several other people. It didn't matter if the diner was male or female or younger or older and it didn't matter whether the person the diner was with (when shown with one other person) was the same sex or the other sex." But! "That's not to say that the solo diners were never scoffed at," she added. "They were. But in equal measure, so were the people who were shown dining with someone else."

You will be most scoffed at if you're trying to eat alone and you drop most of your chicken salad down your shirt as you try to read at the same time. But why should any of us care what other people think?

I should note the other main dilemma of dining alone: There's no one to watch your bag if you get up to use the bathroom and want to leave it there.

The Movies Alone

I've often heard tale that going to the movies alone is one of the most enjoyable of solo outings. There's no one to have to make boring pre-movie small talk with, and you get to enjoy the film of your choosing all on your own, without having to worry about your companion's thoughts on it. You don't have to share the popcorn. You can sit wherever you like. It's dark and private but public at the same time. You can fully immerse yourself in the entertainment, and it's about you, alone.

I haven't personally been swayed by these charming positives, at least, not until now. Over the weekend, slammed with deadlines, I thought: Why don't I just go see a movie? That's one way to confront deadlines, and plus, it was "research." So, spur of the moment, I bought a ticket, and I went. I found a seat in the theater, which wasn't full, and I sat back and immersed myself in the film, and it was great. (It helped that the movie I saw, The Way, Way Back, was excellent and transportive in its own right.) The scenario before, during, and after the film felt transportive, too, though. I felt liberated in my ability to move among crowds unnoticed, to do whatever I felt like, all upon my own volition, and this, maybe, is the fear but also the pleasure of doing something all on your own in public. You might become very nearly invisible (the opposite fear is that you're noticed too much) as your onesome when compared to the larger, louder groups of two and three or four or more. But they are unwieldy, while you can flit into and out of spaces built only for one. You are flexible, adaptable, and the only person you need worry about is yourself.

The Bar Alone, Part Two

Countering what I just mentioned above, of course, are the negative aspects of "invisibility." This is when you're by yourself and feel vulnerable or ignored, or as if your desires aren't as important because they don't come in twos. I decided to try another bar alone outing, and went to a nearby spot on a Saturday night, where I grabbed a stool and ordered a glass of rosé. I didn't have a book, but I did have my iPhone, and as I drank I read Twitter and chatted idly with the bartender. Then, though, came in a couple, and I was asked to move over to make room for them — not a terrible request, and one that might have come whether I was with another or not, but it still stung a little. I felt like as a single less ground was mine.

Then into the bar came a woman who sat herself down next to me and opened a book and ordered dinner, all in one smooth move. She was by herself, but entirely unperturbed about that. She was the dining-alone person I wanted to be, effortlessly sipping her drink, underlining passages in her book, talking to the bartender — who eventually brought her a free dessert — and generally having the most wonderful of solo times, an outing that seemed even better because she was alone. She was alone not just for an experiment, not just because she was hungry, but because this was what she wanted to be doing, right here, right now.

I drank my wine and watched her and felt my alone endeavors pale in comparison to hers, until suddenly I realized I was doing exactly the same thing I'd feared others would do to me. I was judging myself. We are all our own harshest critics in many aspects of life, but the awareness that I was doing that even now freed me up again, enough to ask the woman next to me what she'd ordered. She told me. "It's so good," she says. "You should totally get it." I wasn't hungry, but I took her words to mean that her comfort and ease in public solitude could be mine too, if I only let myself enjoy it. She was right.

Of course, we are all precious snowflakes with our own varying needs for aloneness-and-togetherness; what works for me may not for you. As DePaulo told me, "I have found that people vary tremendously in just how much time they like to spend with other people, and how much time they like to spend alone. Everyone, though, wants some of both." Keep in mind, too, that loneliness and solitude are two very different things — we can be lonely among others, and we may crave being alone, but not be lonely at all.

My efforts at doing things alone were most of all freeing. It felt good to shake things up a little, to try new things (even if the newness was simply in the way I tried them), to know that options I'd formerly considered closed had been open to me the whole time. Reminding myself that I can do whatever I like, and I don't need anyone else to do it with, felt healthy. And in truth there is enjoyment to be found in heading to the bar by yourself with a book, or even without one; to picking a movie on your own and seeing it that way, too — just as there is freedom and enjoyment to be found in reclining on your couch in your home alone, or in going out with friends. Why limit yourself to any of those things when you can do them all? "Some people who are appalled at the mere thought of going to dinner or a movie or some other event by themselves may be surprised at what it actually feels like if they try it," says DePaulo. "Even if the experience instead ends up confirming their worst fears, they can at least feel proud of the fact that they did it, if only one time."

There's nothing to lose but the fear of being alone.