Napkin Math

I don’t care for a cloth napkin. When I see one at a place setting, my first thought is: Well, I’ll be wiping my hands on my jeans tonight.

It’s not a grudge against the fabric—I actually appreciate the lack of waste. It’s that those napkins signify you’ve entered a "well-to-do" zone. I’m not great with P’s and Q’s; not from a lack of effort, but from a genuine confusion over fork placement. It feels weird to play the fool in a play you never auditioned for.

The irony is that the dinner is usually fine, but the details are daunting. We spend the whole meal worrying about the one thing that doesn't actually matter—the linen—instead of the thing that does: the food. It makes me wonder how many other "napkins" I’m letting ruin my appetite.

We all know how to eat; it’s one of the few things we’re born knowing how to do. Yet, we’ve become obsessed with refining the process rather than enjoying the meal. We’ve traded the joy of a good burger for the anxiety of using the "correct" fork, as if the wrong utensil makes the calories count more.

There’s nothing wrong with appreciating nuance—the weight of the silverware or the thread count of the linen. But when the details become a barrier to entry, we’ve lost the plot. The table should be a community moment where people of all types share the experience, not a synchronized movement where we’re all terrified of missing a step.

We’ve become so focused on etiquette that we’ve forgotten how to just be with one another. I’d rather have a messy conversation over a picnic bench than a silent one over a pristine setting. At the end of the day, the meal is just the excuse to get us in the same room. Stop worrying about which fork to pick up and start worrying about who you’re sitting across from.

Word Count: ~385 words Approximate Read Time: 1 minute, 45 seconds