Ted's Birthday: Observation #2 (Panera Bread)

Four seniors were eating lunch in the half booth next to me. One wished for ice cream. Another voted chocolate chip cookie. They left to retrieve their sweets, and five minutes later, returned instead with generous slices of chocolate brownie, outlined in thick frosting. One looked anxiously down at the plate, while the other three peered at each other, nodding slightly and counting under their breath. Then:

“Happy birthday to you
Happy birthday to you
Happy birthday dear Ted
Happy birthday to you!”

I don’t know how I should feel about this. At first I’m happy, to see this ritual of the young being performed by those who usually regard birthdays not as occasions to celebrate but to fear: another notch in the increasingly carved up bed post of life, soon to be woodchips. But these spirited four were exuberant. Ted was even joining in the song, not just passively allowing the day (and thus, recognition of his waning days en masse) to be acknowledged, but actively partaking in the revelry. The five-year-olds in attendance should’ve been taking notes.

My joy for these four soured, however, when I recalled my most recent birthday party. I was similarly among friends and family, but within the warm confines of my home, surrounded by not only plaster and brick, but memories, a past worth being nostalgic over. This mortar was thick; these walls were secure, as was I that day. Among those with whom I share more than genes, in a house I could walk through blind-folded, I was content.

My nostalgia dissolved to the scene in front of me. These four had sung with enthusiasm, yes, over gargantuan pieces of rich brownie, sure. But they were ringing in this special day not at their home, but at a chain restaurant. They were not surrounded by shared consciousness , but with businessmen on their lunch break, and divorced fathers taking their sons out for their weekend treat, and a ballerina class just out of their afternoon session.

It didn’t seem right, having this ritual take place in the public sphere. But perhaps I’m looking at this all wrong. Maybe their brick-and-mortar houses have been sold off long ago, and their families have moved away, or visit them only on holidays, the twice-a-year visitation rights of the lonely and burdensome. The building in which they live might have a name that tries too hard to comfort: a Shady Pines, a Sunset Ridge. Maybe by surrounding themselves with all this vitality, this seething mass of book clubs and dramatizing teen girls and ringing cash registers, they immerse themselves in something like home: the human condition.

No one really eats alone. Sometimes, the table just isn’t big enough.