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Little ol' lonesome me stepped into the busy restaurant and asked for a table for six. At six.

I was there to meet up with five of my college girlfriends and arrived early to get a table. Trouble was it was only 20 minutes until six. So the hostess must have thought there was plenty of time to get a table ready because she motioned to a bench against the front window and advised me to take a seat. That really didn't make sense as there were at least a dozen empty tables within sight of the presently assigned seating area. This was a maroon, diamond-tucked bench stretching 10 feet long. Seemed more appropriate for the long wait at a dignified steak and potato place rather than at a trendy Mexican joint.

But back to the table situation. I was bettin' the bulk of the wait staff didn't go on duty until six, even on a Friday night. Apparently one isn't allowed to sit at a table if there isn't a wait person available to cater to your needs.

People comin' into the place seemed a bit on the grumpy side with sweat runnin' down their necks after being outside in the heat. Still, it wouldn't kill 'em to smile a little. If not at me, at least at each other. Or maybe it would kill 'em, much like the Mexican food they were about to inhale before going back out in the summer swelter. The thought crossed my mind that maybe this wasn't the best place for my group to meet. Might and should have gone for something cool. But finding a restaurant with tables, ice cream and, most importantly, margaritas ain't all that easy.

Or, maybe those grumpy folks were just plain ornery. For example: after the woman walked toward the restroom, the hostess showed up to seat the men. One laughed sarcastically and said, "Don't tell her where we are!" Now, that is ornery. I'd kick that son of a gun in his hairy shins, which should have been covered up with denim instead of sticking out in front of God and everybody from those wrinkled shorts.

Six more minutes passed toward getting my table for six at six. There I still sat on the diamond-tucked bench. Luckily, the air conditioning was set on about 55 degrees, but I was gettin' a little thirsty. Maybe, I thought, the night shift will come shuffling in and I can get a glass of water while I wait. But no such luck. No new workers appeared. I considered waltzing over to the bar and demanding loudly, "Gimme some water, easy on the ice." But that was a laugh because there was no way in heaven and earth I would sashay up to the bar with all those young, beautiful people hanging about with their lemon-raspberry flavored malt beverages.

Then again, what's stopping me? If I did go dive in amongst those youngsters, I would grin and nod as though we knew each other, and they'd think I was some crazy old lady. Though I am happy to say not much gray shows in my decently brown hair and I have never colored it. In fact, I recently sat in a group of 23 high school girlfriends and was pretty sure only myself and one other gal had not resorted to washing away the gray. She had plenty and was proud to have it. As my daddy used to say, I'd rather it turn gray than turn loose.

Regardless, this old age thing is mostly in the mind, partly in the body. I recently read somewhere that the average person considers "old age" to be at least 10 years over their current age. I find this to be true. Those 22-year-old beautiful people probably would think this 59-year-old to be elderly. But they'd be dead wrong. Not me. No siree. What they don't know is I drive a fast car, have a motorcycle license, and also own a fine looking convertible. Sure, most of my friends are not only parents, but grandparents, but I skipped that extra contributor that would certainly have forced massive amounts of Loving Care into my hair.

As it got closer to six, the six hadn't shown up yet. Did I worry they wouldn't and I'd still be sittin' by my lonesome self at 6:30 at a table for six - if I ever get one, that is. No, I wasn't concerned. I knew the other five would come and make us six. But as time passed, I thought more seriously about that glass of water. Or just some ice. Just as I rose to take action on that idea, one of my friends entered the restaurant. It struck me funny or ironic that it is the gal who lives the farthest away. I thought, if she wants some water, too, perhaps we can face the beautiful people together over at that bar and say something like, "Bartender," slam our fists down on the polished wood, "I need a drink…of water."

- Elaine Fields Smith

Elaine Fields Smith is an author and publisher in Texas who loves her friends, her animals and her husband of 34 years. Her creative nonfiction books are often categorized as "The Good, The Bad and The Funny" and can be seen on www.blazingstarbooks.com.