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-----------
Support
Indiebride! Your optional subscription fee helps keep the site up
and running. -----------
Racing
toward love Strapped! Mommy
Diarist The
Guilty Bride Introducing
… IndieEtiquette Bride,
Unhinged When
Wedding Dresses Attack! Book
Review: The Artful Bride The
B-word My
Best Friends' Weddings When
Bachelors Go Bad O
Brother Wed Art Thou The
Mythology of Marriage A
Marriage of My Own Why
I Popped the Question My
Wedding, My Way Happily
Ever After Am
I Really That Single? -----------
|
 |
There's nothing more soul-crushing than being the only unmarried woman at a wedding shower.
Still, I
was determined to go. I glanced at the invitation. Sunday, April 22, brunch,
noon to four. Four hours? That worried me. But when the morning arrived,
I wrapped Flannery O'Connor's book of Complete Stories in pink tissue paper,
applied some shiny lip gloss and set out, open minded, for Tavern On The
Green. I promised myself not to keep track of time. How bad could it be?
I had no
idea. Five minutes
into it, I was ready to leave. Maybe it was all the talk about cutlery
and china patterns while sipping mimosas in mules. Or maybe it was the
Whitney Houston soundtrack that seemed to be emanating out of gigantic
floral arrangements. I felt as though I'd wandered onto the set of All
My Children just as they were shooting the "bridal shower scene." Everywhere
I looked there were windows, but none of them opened. For a while,
I stood on the periphery of several conversations trying to look interested,
wondering if I was pulling it off. I considered, briefly, changing the
subject but soon realized this was a one topic event. You don't talk about
health insurance at bridal showers. When I commented that Bali would be
a great place to go for a honeymoon, I got some attention. "Oh," a woman
wearing Banana Republic's entire spring line cooed, "Is that where you
went?" "Yeah, but
not on a honeymoon." "Wait," She
looked confused. "You went by yourself?" Suddenly,
I felt like a suffragette. Was I really that brave? I realized her perspective
-- that every exotic locale was essentially just another honeymoon destination
-- was especially unnerving because when I glanced around the room, I
saw nothing but savvy, urban New Yorkers. Where were the real people? There was
something about being around so many women who were married or about to
be that made me feel indignant and proud. The same way that being around
rudeness makes me more polite. But just as I was about to joyfully explain
that yes, horrifying as it may sound, I went to Bali alone, we
were asked to sit down. And it was then, over the next three hours and
forty-five minutes that I began to re-evaluate my entire existence. By
the time my egg white omelet arrived, I no longer felt indignant and proud.
I felt pathetic. Nina sat
me next to her mother who I had not seen since freshman year. Her first
words to me were, "I don't remember you being so attractive" and from there,
it only got worse. Her poor mother. It ruined her meal when I told her I
wasn't in a relationship. And she couldn't let it go. I kept changing the
subject; she kept bringing it back. One of the most humiliating moments
of the afternoon came when she shouted, clear across the table to Nina who
was at the opposite end: "How can it be that Ariel doesn't have a boyfriend?"
Nina shrugged. So she cried out again, "How can that be?"
Apparently
at wedding showers, people take leave of their senses: Questions they
wouldn't think of asking in the real world flow freely in bizarro-shower
world. It's a safe haven for passing judgement. I smiled.
"I've been with a lot of the wrong guys, I guess." She was shaking
her head and looking at me as though I had tuberculosis. Then she uttered
the most awful sentence, ever: "Don't worry, you'll meet someone." This is a
comment that does not make me feel good. I understand why she said it
-- with intentions to raise my spirits. But my spirits were fine. Until
she said that. And what people who say that don't realize is: I meet men
all the time. The problem is, they're dull. So telling me that doesn't
give me hope. It gives me a back spasm. "Let's see."
She continued, intent on repairing my life before the cake arrived, "Why
do you think you haven't met anyone?" I stared
into my cappuccino foam wanting to disappear. How do you even answer a
question like that? Because I'm
difficult and potentially unlovable? That doesn't feel right. The worst
of it was, when she said that, everyone looked so concerned. As if not
having a boyfriend was tragic. I felt like pointing out that I wasn't
the one admiring wrapping paper, applauding for lingerie and gluing ribbons
onto a box. Over the
next two hours, Nina opened all of her gifts. She sat at the head of the
table, an entourage by her side. There was a runner who moved like a gazelle
picking from the gift pile and placing the present in front of her. There
was a gluer in charge of the discarded ribbons. There was a scribe keeping
track of who gave what and a picker-upper folding and saving the wrapping.
There was a videographer documenting all of the fun and then, there was
me. Sitting there, with a frozen smile on my face, dreading the moment when
Nina would tear open the Flannery O'Connor book. When the time came, the
fun stopped. Whereas the other gifts had solicited tears of joy, mine solicited
a quizzical "oh" and smattering of polite applause. Thankfully, a carton
from Crate and Barrell was quickly presented and with an audible gasp from
the crowd things were back on track. I sunk down in my chair.
And then,
I left early. I told Nina that I had a deadline to meet. It was depressing
that I felt I had to lie about work but her reaction was even more depressing.
She seemed so relieved that I had work. (Since I didn't have love). Walking home,
I moved in a bleary-eyed daze. I was overwhelmed with a feeling that I
wasn't a part of something but I couldn't put my finger on what it was.
Then it hit me: the human race. I'd never felt so single before in my
life. But it was more than that. In a perverse way, it made me feel like
I too, wanted a shower. Not because I desired the actual event; I just
wanted to be a part of that validation. So I decided there's got to be
a way to celebrate marriage without making those of us that aren't there
yet feel bad. Or maybe it's as simple as not allowing myself to be so
affected. After all, it was only three hours, four minutes and twenty-three
seconds of my life. ----------- Ariel S.
Leve is a novelist living in New York. ----------- Ever been
to a shower from hell? Tell all in Kvetch |
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