Years ago, I was running to make it to the wedding chapel on time. Frazzled I bumped into the bride rushing in. We both roared a raucous laugh at my klutzy timing. I’d come alone but managed to get my friend’s roommate to drop me off since I could not take public transportation there. When he left, it suddenly occurred to me that I didn’t know anyone but the bride and groom, how bad could it be?
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I looked around and didn’t have a soul to talk to. The groom was a close friend from the Peace Corps. I figured everyone at the wedding would be as carefree as we were. Although a comfortable talker, I thought an ounce of alcohol would make it that much easier to approach strangers. I found my way to the bar, and loosened the pink cashmere shawl. I didn’t take into account the Chicago chill. I ordered a glass of white wine and the bartender began to look me up and down. Did I have food in my teeth? Was my makeup a mess? Why was he staring at me?
“Can I see some ID?” He asked seriously.
“ID?” I asked. “It’s a wedding,” I laughed.
“Yeah, but you need to be twenty one for me to serve you.”
“You’re kidding me, right?”
He wasn’t.
I searched through my bite-sized purse for identification, but since I hadn’t driven there, l left my license at home — only able to fit it some mints, a lighter and lip gloss. I had nothing to prove that I was twenty-nine and in desperate need of a cocktail. That was the last time this New Yorker ever wears pink again. The cutesiness must’ve made my already youthful face appear like a teenager.
Thirsty and forlorn, I walked around and began to smoke a cigarette, fearing someone would come and take that away from me too.
A young couple came up to me and said hello. Apparently we had met once at the newlywed’s house when we all lived together in San Francisco and I was ecstatic to have someone to talk to. I told them my bar dilemma and they kindly offered to sneak me a few drinks.
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As the evening progressed I began to talk to more of the guests and slowly found my groove. I even sashayed to the dance floor. But then I heard this: Will all the single ladies come to the main room for the bouquet.
Like any self-respecting independent woman, I ignored the booming announcement. Again, the broadcast was repeated. And then I heard the most disturbing thing possible.
Would Elana Rabinowitz please join the single women on the main floor.
Elana Rabinowitz come to the main floor
I was horrified. How could this be? Make the announcement stop!
I reluctantly grabbed my pink pashmina and made my way downstairs. The bride threw the wildflowers toward me. I ducked and let a teenager catch them (the only other person there to catch the bouquet).
“Why did you have them page me?” I asked, mortified.
“I liked the way your name sounded over the loudspeaker!” The bride giggled after too much Champagne, unaware of the damage she caused.
At 29, I’d never guess I would’ve been the only single woman at a wedding. As it turns out, I wasn’t. I later met two other women who confessed they were too embarrassed to stand up. I’d always go places alone, before. I am more self-conscious now.
As I get older and remain unhitched going to events alone becomes a chore.
I wish I had a significant other, not just for weddings but also for all the days in between. Regretfully I have to decline nuptials because I just can’t face going alone. I hope I can have a wedding of my own one day. I’d invite everyone I love to attend, and I promise not to make anyone catch the bouquet.
Until then, I never go to a wedding without a plus one and I always bring my ID.