Why I’ve embraced going to the pub on my own

I’ve grown excited to embrace this chance to stop, enjoy a wine (I limit myself to three, as to not get sloshed and start hugging everyone in sight), nibble some cheap salted peanuts and read whatever novel is gripping me at the time. It’s a moment to text friends, do some WhatsApp banter and surf Instagram. It’s solo time, but not necessarily solitary.

“There is something to be said for passive socialising,” says Dr Zac Seidler, clinical psychologist and global director of men’s health research for Movember, when I call to discuss my newfound pastime. “There’s this regularity to it that allows a sense of calm and presence in many ways. It gets you out of your own head and out of your own space.”

Seidler tells me there’s a “male loneliness epidemic” happening in Australia. For some guys, even mustering the nerves to head into a pub can be overwhelming. We fear looking embarrassed, when the reality is, as Seidler bluntly put it, “No one cares.”

I’ll repeat that from my own experience: no one cares.

And while taking initiative by asking a mate out for a walk, or to do something else active, is fantastic, taking yourself out for some passive socialising has its place.

“If you went to the bar, you’re going to talk to the bartender for a little bit, you might have a laugh with someone next to you. That can be enough,” says Seidler.

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It’s this “shared experience” he describes that makes the whole thing a small joy. “If you’re in the same place at the same time doing the same thing, you don’t need to know one another to understand that you have something in common.”

The recent Matildas World Cup fever is a good example of something collectively bonding us together. Even I – a lifelong non-sports fan – knew I couldn’t be alone with my forever buffering laptop for that momentous semi-final against England.

So, there I was, seated towards the back of the pub, TV in view, catching snippets of conversations around me – some talking about the game, other dissecting the Barbie movie or asking someone to pass the chips.

“I’m here with two friends of mine,” I messaged a pal. “And by friends, I mean: shiraz and Twisties.”

It was a self-deprecating quip, but perhaps it was no joke at all. I was in the company of mates, even though they had no idea who I was.

Make the most of your health, relationships, fitness and nutrition with our Live Well newsletter. Get it in your inbox every Monday.

I’ve grown excited to embrace this chance to stop, enjoy a wine (I limit myself to three, as to not get sloshed and start hugging everyone in sight), nibble some cheap salted peanuts and read whatever novel is gripping me at the time. It’s a moment to text friends, do some WhatsApp banter and surf Instagram. It’s solo time, but not necessarily solitary.

“There is something to be said for passive socialising,” says Dr Zac Seidler, clinical psychologist and global director of men’s health research for Movember, when I call to discuss my newfound pastime. “There’s this regularity to it that allows a sense of calm and presence in many ways. It gets you out of your own head and out of your own space.”

Seidler tells me there’s a “male loneliness epidemic” happening in Australia. For some guys, even mustering the nerves to head into a pub can be overwhelming. We fear looking embarrassed, when the reality is, as Seidler bluntly put it, “No one cares.”

I’ll repeat that from my own experience: no one cares.

And while taking initiative by asking a mate out for a walk, or to do something else active, is fantastic, taking yourself out for some passive socialising has its place.

“If you went to the bar, you’re going to talk to the bartender for a little bit, you might have a laugh with someone next to you. That can be enough,” says Seidler.

Loading

It’s this “shared experience” he describes that makes the whole thing a small joy. “If you’re in the same place at the same time doing the same thing, you don’t need to know one another to understand that you have something in common.”

The recent Matildas World Cup fever is a good example of something collectively bonding us together. Even I – a lifelong non-sports fan – knew I couldn’t be alone with my forever buffering laptop for that momentous semi-final against England.

So, there I was, seated towards the back of the pub, TV in view, catching snippets of conversations around me – some talking about the game, other dissecting the Barbie movie or asking someone to pass the chips.

“I’m here with two friends of mine,” I messaged a pal. “And by friends, I mean: shiraz and Twisties.”

It was a self-deprecating quip, but perhaps it was no joke at all. I was in the company of mates, even though they had no idea who I was.

Make the most of your health, relationships, fitness and nutrition with our Live Well newsletter. Get it in your inbox every Monday.