And Guest?

When I was 25 and single and the first round of college friends were getting married, I was never given a plus one on my invitations. Not to the slew of regional weddings (okay, it’s going to be like a college reunion. We’ll all sit together as singles and drink and dance and be ‘those girls.’) Not to the Labor Day Weekend 5 hour drive through a hurricane wedding. (You just finished school and are on a tight budget and have a big family. I get it). And not even to the destination wedding in Puerto Rico (it’s a small, intimate affair and yes, I am honored that I am one of the 30 invited guests).  These slights never seemed to bother me. After all, I understood the careful budgeting, the complicated demands on guest lists, and most importantly, the possibility of meeting the groom’s hot single guy friends when one attends a wedding plus no one.

So I would throw on my standard tight black cocktail dress, calculate the number of drinks that must be consumed in order to make up for the money I spent on the travel, the hotel, the gift, and proceed to spend the entire night on the dance floor with a bottomless glass of vodka cranberry in my hand.

I never felt lonely at these events. I was knee deep in graduate school, pursuing my dream of becoming an English professor and esteemed writer. On school breaks, I was teaching and traveling in Europe, riding out those precious final backpacking/hostel years. Boyfriends and weddings and mortgages would only distract me from my lofty plans and destroy the amazing life I had. While my friends were settling into careers and sitting in offices all day, I still had spring breaks, “study” abroad, and three day weekends. I constantly came across new people at school and throughout Europe on my travels, routinely got hit on by the college students I was teaching, ensuring my youth status continued, and casually hung out with/dated the men I encountered through friends and in bars. Life was full. And life was so much more fun than those with who rsvp for two.

By my late 20s, another round of friends began the marriage process--those who had finally finished graduate school, finally had saved up for that house, or finally settled in the same city with their significant other.  I worried that now that we were officially ‘adults’ who were all pushing thirty, I would be invited with a plus one...and I didn’t have a plus one to bring. Ever the late bloomer, I still approached dating with a college-like mentality, which meant that I never really dated and certainly never went after a guy who wanted a real relationship. Peter Pan is the epitome of sexy, right? Too, guy friends were becoming scarce--I lost them to relocations, jealous girlfriends and wives, and the general state of tired that sets as we grow older. Fortunately, or maybe unfortunately, my invitations did not extend to include the elusive plus one. At 29, I was relegated to the kid’s/2nd cousins table at wedding. No, not even the single’s table. Because when you and all of your friends are pushing thirty, the singleton is a rare species. A species that is all too apparent and exposed at such functions.

Did I feel bad about my plus no one status in my late 20s? Indeed I did. Not because I was dreaming of my own wedding colors and reception location and certainly not because I wanted a platinum setting of my own. Rather, I just wanted someone to deflect from the awkward and sometimes offensive questions that are imposed about singletons--questions and comments that are so much more frequent at public events, like weddings. “Why aren’t you married yet?” “You’re such a beautiful girl. I just don’t understand.” “Maybe it’s time to settle down and get serious about dating.” “Why don’t you try online dating?” I hated having to justify why I didn’t have a plus one.  I hated the pressure to appease everyone else and make them feel comfortable with my plus no one status by crafting a rehearsed, logical explanation. I hated the very clear distinction that I was the 9th person at the table and there were no single friends left with whom to share a hotel room or a group gift.

Now at 32, my attendance at weddings has been largely replaced by RSVPs for themed baby showers. While there are still occasional weddings, they are mostly those belonging to younger cousins and 2nd go -rounds for slightly older divorced friends. And when the stray first- wedding friend invites me to their event, I am filled with hope that this long-term singleton understands the plight of the plus no one and will commiserate with a simple and sincere ‘and guest’ on my envelope. Sadly, my hopes have been consistently dashed in my 30s. Family weddings still use the ‘You’re only invited with a guest if you’ve been dating them for over a year’ rule, even though I am one of the youngest grandchildren in the large brood and one of the few singles left. So that means I am insultingly alone at ‘little’ cousins’ joyous days. And even more recently, I braved a 6 hour solitary drive to upstate New York for my cool, former single girlfriend’s romantic winery wedding weekend. Staying in a somewhat seedy ‘Comfort Inn’ in a podunk town (because I couldn’t afford the fancy rooms at the winery), I sat alone in my bed each night with a glass of $7 white wine and a bag of peanuts watching old Lifetime movies on Youtube.  Each morning, I ventured to the McDonald’s or the convenient store to find myself a makeshift breakfast. When it came time for the actual wedding, the 11th seat placed just for me at the already overcrowded table screamed of the lingering ‘where do we put the single one’ dilemma. I spent the reception scouring the room for any signs of a single man...divorced, balding, unemployed, whatever. But all I found was a cute old man who was itching for a swing dance spin on the dance floor while his supportive, yet feeble wife looked on, clapping offbeat to the outdated tunes. I ended up in the back of the picturesque building with a drunk uncle who was challenging me to a push-ups contest. I won! And I didn’t get any grass stains on my dress.

When I went to leave New York at 4:30am on a Sunday, after this painfully single weekend, I discovered that a strange light had made its appearance on the dashboard of my car. With no significant other, no guy friend, brother, or dad to help, I prayed to the baby Jesus that the light wasn’t a sign of something serious and that I could make it home before my car was sure to blow up. It was then that I resolved to start a new life. I was going to stop being so self conscious, so aware of my loneliness, so uncomfortable with being single. I was going to embrace my plus no one. Oh, and I was going to learn about my dashboard lights...and a bit of car safety.

So now I find myself in a brand new city with a brand new job. In late August, I left Philadelphia, the site of my friends, family, and entire life, and moved just a few hours south to DC--a move no one in my close knit family is ever supposed to make. I swapped my exhausting teaching job for a newer, less exhausting but still non prestigious teaching appointment. I moved into an overpriced 2 bedroom apartment with a cute 20 something girl and her frequently visiting boyfriend. Knowing only 2 or 3 people in the area, I am learning how to navigate the world of making new friends in the grown up world, dating in a city that has been described as “touuuughhhhh,” and cultivating my domestic diva skills.

These are my stories.