This summer I have been graciously invited to attend a dear friend's wedding. My first crush, and as I have said about many of the crew with which I was privileged enough to grow up with, one of the best people on the planet. I have known this man most of my life and I love him enough to travel cross country to witness his nuptials with a smile on my face and joy in my heart.
Whenever I receive a wedding invitation via the US Postal service and am invited to share in a loved one's special day, I am touched. I am far less touched when checking off my chicken or fish choice and I see there is no spot for the proverbial +1. In my younger days, when I knew everyone at the wedding or the understandable budgetary constraints made far more sense it was slightly less offensive. But as an adult in my 30s with a career and some semblance of decorum (I said some) I am baffled. As a single woman the immediate thought of those to whom I vent about this frustration is that it is far less about the escort of varying importance seated next to me at the polyester clad circular table for the evening and more about my quest to find my own 'one' and, in turn, give birth to the most beautiful biracial baby this side of the Mississippi. Perhaps there is a dollop of that frustration, but it is merely an optional condiment on an otherwise very real affront sundae.
Being from anywhere USA most of my friends partnered off early and those who are doing so now are the remaining few. This means, an implicit +1 on your dance card for life - and I respect that. My irritation lies within the fact that because I am single and have for one reason or another not taken vows with a member of the opposite (or same, depending on the state in which you reside) sex I am forced to dine on overcooked meat and listen to KC and the Sunshine band alone.
At 32, there is no longer a singles table at which the open bar allows for flirtatious chatter and inevitable questionable choices. This means, I am essentially at the kids table.
In the adult world it would seem that being single somehow equates to being a child, or being a cripple.
If I had a car, I am sure I would have a state issued placard dangling discreetly from my rear view allowing everyone who passes by to know that I am somehow so deeply flawed that no one wants to share a mortgage and menopause with me and therefore, I am destined to a life of peasantries with strangers and small talk with people who I don't give a rats ass about on the shellacked wedding dance floor of life.
Don't get me wrong - I am aware I can RSVP no thanks - but somehow that is cutting off my nose to spite my face because, though I think it is rude and thoughtless to not allow someone out of wedlock to essentially 'bring a friend' or better yet a significant other of clearly lacking significance in the eyes of the lord, I do want to share in the special days of loved ones and I am truly happy they have found what it is they are looking for and are able to celebrate in a public and celebratory manner.
Please believe me when I say these are not the ramblings of a bitter woman, but the stream of consciousness of someone who thinks too much and attends many-a-wedding. It just seems to be, that at this point in life, we are grown and if you need me to send a personal check for the $50 required to feed yet another face overpriced cafeteria food, as opposed to spending an otherwise lovely afternoon gazing at the happy couple while idly chatting the day away with your great Aunt Susan -sign me up!
