Why I shouldn't be allowed out of the house on my own

I've been in Houston the last couple days, for work. I don't like business travel at the best of times, but am especially bad at travelling alone. I mean, once the last meeting's over, whats one supposed to do with your time?

So after I was done for the day I headed over to the gym. This gym was a tiny room (converted guest room at best estimate) with a couple of treadmills, a couple of bikes and a bunch of weights. There were four, sweaty, overweight men in the room already working out. I'm not trying to turn you off this blog post - people in the gym are just always sweaty, by the very nature of what they are doing, so I can't very well hold that against them. But it did occur to me, midst-jog, that I don't think I've ever been in a gym before with only men around. It's not like they looked at me - they probably hadn't even registered my presence, preoccupied as they were with their own grunts and groans. It was just me. I'd never been in a place - well, so testosteronified - in my life.

So as soon as I had done enough cardio to be able to call it a respectable workout, I jogged off the machine, out of the gym, and all the way back to my room as quickly as possible. But as soon as I'd stepped out of the shower, I was at loose ends all over again.

I checked my email about 10 times in as many minutes, but no one had sent me anything. Which irritated me quite a bit because when I'm all comfy at home and ready to watch the Wire, it seems like all my colleagues erupt in a veritable frenzy of email. But today - when all I need is a bit of work to occupy my dulling mind - nothing. Ridic.

So I walked around the block trying to find a nice spot to grab some dinner, but was left with a rather unsettled feeling. For one, there were no people about. Here I was, in the heart of downtown Houston, only 8pm, and there were no pedestrians anywhere. Nobody. Nitsch. Nein. Nada. Which wouldn't bother me - say if I was in rural Montana - but here, in a downtown city center, the empty streets felt like being in part of a sci fi movie. Or in the Twilight Zone. You know what I mean. And the other thing I noticed was that there were only chains. I passed a Subway, a Chilli's, an Olive Garden, a Ruby Tuesday, a McDonalds and a Pizza Hut before I was convinced enough that the only palatable option was to return to the hotel and huddle for my dear life.

So I ended up eating dinner by myself in the hotel restaurant, entertaining book in hand. A Marriott dinner is no less dreary than a fast food chain, mind you - but it has with it the dignity of the resignation with which I faced the rest of my trip.

And here's the climax of the evening. After the dinner, after I had paid my bill, after I had cleaned my plate and emptied my glass of wine, when all I had to do to make this a successful day was to get back safely to my room - I gone and outdone myself again. At the very last minute I suddenly suffered a lapse of the mind (for nothing else could explain this), and as I was leaving, I ... wait for it ... I gave the waitress a hug.

Yes, you heard it right. I actually gave the waitress a hug. Not the gentle squeeze of the arm, mind. A full-fledged bear-hug.

What was I thinking?! Just like all other times, I have no clue. I was horrified. I'm sure she was equally so.

But the poor girl reacted much to her credit, which is more than can be said for me. She said a mere startled thank you and beat a hasty retreat. I was mortified of course. To clarify, although I've done many a demented thing in my life, I have never, never, hugged a waitress before, just for serving me food. It was all very awkward, and I wish fervently that I've forgotten all about it by the morrow.