I suffer from seating anxiety.

Seating anxiety, for those blissfully ignorant few who do not share the affliction, is when you show up somewhere and immediately become terrified that there will not be a seat for you.

My case is so bad it often begins before I even leave home. I have the Cracker Barrel app on my phone for the sole purpose of putting my name ahead on the seating list. And I use it almost every time.

I say almost every time because I’ve trained myself to notice their traffic ebbs and peaks. Eleven AM on a Sunday? You ignorant fool, you don’t even stand a chance.

While the app is necessary at Cracker Barrel, one of my favorite power moves at other restaurants is charging past the line of families at the hostess station to seat myself at the bar.

Enjoy your dinner conversation, suckers, I’ve got ten TVs and apps are half-priced. Be careful not to trip over the diaper bag wedged underneath your high chair, loser. My seat swivels three-hundred-and-sixty degrees.

My seating anxiety is a family condition passed down from both sides either by nature or nurture, I’m not sure.

It’s been instilled in me since my youngest days to have at least one family member peel off from the group to immediately occupy a table at restaurants like McDonald’s or Papa Gino’s where you go to the front of the house to order. Even when the restaurant is empty.

We’re downright ruthless in crowded situations. My family repeatedly vacations in Cape Cod and makes a tradition of going to a very popular ice cream spot. We’re old hands at this having first attended at an age where we would protest when Dad said we were going to Sunday School until he explained it was spelled “Sundae.”

My family, now numbering twenty with nieces, nephews, and spouses included descends on Sundae School like a pride of lions picking one seat off at the end of the herd and slowly moving toward the middle (adding reinforcements as more seats become vacant) until we’ve gotten our fill.

Jenny’s family also understands the importance of seating. They have a phone-tree support system for checking each other in on Southwest airlines flights when one of them is unavailable at the precise moment when check-in is required.

Her family views a B-level seating assignment as a mark of shame. Perhaps the angriest Jenny has ever been at me was the time I forgot to check us in got a C-level assignment. I’m man enough to admit my shortcomings and didn’t object when she shifted the responsibility back to more-trusted blood relatives.

My seating anxiety isn’t about struggling to handle a crowd or feeling entitled to something. If I’m in a new place and show up somewhere popular, it doesn’t upset me to be stuck in a long line. But if it’s something I’ve experienced before, could have anticipated and failed to do so, I’m livid – beside myself with grief that I’ve landed back in a situation I could’ve easily avoided.

Unless, of course, I jump willingly into the midst. I wouldn’t be upset about struggling to find a seat in a crowded place like Disney World because I know enough to see the crowd coming.

And if I did something really stupid, like go to Disney World when schools are on break, I’d accept the situation for what it was – something I expected and planned to tolerate.

Similarly, I’m never angry about being stuck in a spontaneous traffic jam, but when its event or holiday-related and I should’ve seen it coming, I’m pissed at myself for making unwise decisions.

I’m not worried that the world won’t make a space for me – I’m worried about failing to use all of my intelligence and talents to carve out the kind of space I want. Preferably a booth by the window.

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