In my post-married life, it has always felt a little strange to attend these celebrations without a date. Occasionally it was fun. More often uncomfortable. And sometimes excruciatingly painful to be alone in a sea of couples. But I’d tough it out, present my gift and leave at the earliest opportunity with the feeble excuse of having another pressing engagement.
Maybe getting upset about not having the option to bring a date was “my hang-up,” as some friends suggested. Still, is discrimination based on marital status any less wrong than the dismissal of a female employee who refuses to wear makeup? These days, I refuse to attend any affair as a single unless it happens to be my preference. At long last I can say, “No thank you,” and send a check.
The bias against singles begins at the earliest stage of planning a wedding. First, the betrothed and prospective in-laws parry over who gets to invite how many guests and who will pay for what - the ballroom, ceremony, music, flowers, menu, picture albums and videos. Quickly they realize that a consensus must be reached on how to reduce costs. Obviously the guest list will need to be trimmed. The first casualties are second cousins, teenagers and anyone who omitted the hosts from a guest list, gave less than a generous gift in the past or made a mildly disparaging remark about the bride’s mother 25 years ago. Next come the singles, sitting ducks for the paring knife. If lucky (or unlucky) enough to survive the cut, they’ll be invited as single only - escorts not welcome!
Let’s examine why this is unfair:
First, a married person is always invited as part of a couple. It’s automatic, a cardinal rule of the wedding game, accepted by all and inflexible. “Mr. and Mrs.” the envelope reads, although the hosts may not know one of the spouses from an extraterrestrial. Or that spouse may be detested by all civilized beings, a blooming idiot, bigot, child molester or thief. Never mind. The spouse is invited. Case closed.
Another rule, a little more complex, is that a single person may be accorded the special privilege of bringing an escort if, and only if, that person is currently involved in an “ongoing and serious relationship.” Naturally, it’s the hosts who make the determination as to what qualifies as “ongoing and serious.” There are tests. For example: “Didn’t they break up twice this year?” Or, “Hasn’t she started dating other men?”
In the eyes of the married, you see, to qualify under the “ongoing and serious” doctrine, the relationship must: (a) be monogamous, (b) hold out the prospect for marriage and (c) appear to be moving swiftly in that direction. If the couple in question are simply lovers, platonic friends or, God forbid, gay or lesbian, well that’s too bad. That’s not a real relationship in the eyes of the about-to-be-married - sorry, no escort!
The last rule may be the most insidious of all. It’s cleverly concocted by Married America to reduce the ranks of the unwed, the millions of us who by fate or design are widowed, separated, divorced or never-married. For all but the most enlightened of married folk, the inescapable truth is that singles are at best, a disfavored minority about whom hosts feel at least some guilt. One way or another, that guilt must be assuaged. So what do hosts do? They become matchmakers, of course, telling their single invites how they’ll have this lovely table by the dance floor all to themselves, and that there’s this extra-special person of the opposite sex who is also coming solo and “is just dying to meet you.”
So there are the singles, conspicuous by their presence, seated at their own table, at an affair which by nature and intent exalts and pays tribute to the world of couples in general and marriage in particular. And at the end of the evening, the coup de grace that somehow says it all - the ritual herding of all the single females on to the dance floor to see which of them will be lucky enough to find a husband by catching the bride’s bouquet. So much for feminism in the ’90s.
Of course, when there aren’t enough singles to fill a table, odd-person-out seating is arranged. When the dance band starts playing, the single person is generally left sitting alone. At one wedding, I recall making frequent and prolonged visits to the men’s room whenever the dancing began; embarrassed, I gave the attendant increasingly extravagant tips. Table-hopping was another useful refuge, but real relief didn’t come until one young fellow who’d been sopping up the booze all night passed out, affording me the opportunity to administer first aid by applying ice packs to his neck and forehead on a lobby couch.
So this time I will reluctantly tell my friend that I’ll miss seeing her in bridal splendor, walking down the aisle, embarking on a new and exciting life. I’ll remember the endless hours we spent talking about her taking the risk, going for it all, getting what she truly wanted in life. I’ll wish her happiness and joy in my own way and will remain her friend if she wants it. But I’m staying home on the wedding day. Pride, foolishness perhaps, prevents me from asking permission to bring a guest. Having to ask is demeaning. As in Robert Browning’s “My Last Duchess,” she should have known.
