I’ve been to plenty of weddings in my life—cousins, friends, William and Kate (OK, that last one was from the comfort of my own home, but you get the idea)— and I left each one feeling kind of wistful. Will that ever be me? Am I destined to spend eternity at the single’s table? And, maybe the most telling of all: Had my disability really made me this jaded?
In a way, I’d been preparing myself for being my own plus-one for two decades, thanks to my obsessive pop culture consumption. If romantic comedies are to be believed, weddings are the single person’s kryptonite – the Achilles’ heel of the heart – that blasts our relationship status to the world like a giant neon sign. I grew up with a steady diet of these films and even from a young age, I couldn’t help but feel like I was peeking into a crystal ball of my future: Hours sitting dejected while watching the bride and groom dance or hopelessly trying to make small talk with strangers who I’d probably never see again.
There was My Best Friend’s Wedding, for example, which came out 20 years ago this past summer. In it, Julia Roberts’ character watches love find her best friend while she sits alone on the sidelines. In a panicked, last-stitch effort, she tries to stop the wedding because, as I saw things at 16, not even Julia Roberts in all her glory wanted to risk being a spinster. Alone equals lonely.
As I got older, it didn’t help that my physical disability made me feel as though I was on display; I felt incredibly self-conscious of my surgical scars, wheelchair, and deformities and was about ready to say goodbye to any sense of hope. I was born with Freeman-Sheldon Syndrome, a rare genetic bone and muscular disorder. And in my wheelchair, well, I tend to make an entrance wherever I go. I’ve realized that it’s impossible for me to go under-the-radar, no matter how much I might want to. People notice me. That’s just how it is.
So when I found myself sitting in a small banquet hall one rainy October evening in 2015, attending my first wedding as a solo guest, I felt especially seen—and not in a good way. Everything should have been perfect—I’d been friends with the bride for six years, and her now-husband almost as long, and I couldn’t have been happier for them. Plus, at 34, I knew most people my age had probably been attending weddings alone for nearly a decade and it’s really not that unusual. But here I was, drinking my Coca-Cola in a dimly-lit ballroom and feeling anxious. It would be one thing if I could just easily blend in with the crowd—I craved that kind of anonymity—but instead, I carried that self-consciousness with me that night. Insecurity was my plus-one.
I dreaded sitting at a table with strangers, fielding all those pesky, inevitable questions, “Who are you here with? Are you married? Are you engaged?” Everyone around me seemed to have come with their significant others. Watching them, I couldn’t help but feel like I’d let my disability create a wall that separated me from the happiness they got to experience. I was feeling too awkward to actually sit with any of the people pouring into the ballroom, so I remained at my suddenly-too-large table, all by myself.
And then, shortly before dinner, I felt a light tap on my shoulder.
“Would you like to sit with us?” asked a woman I’d never met. I turned around to see that she was seated with her husband a few feet away. I thought that maybe they just felt sorry for me, but realized I didn’t care even if they did. It felt nice to be acknowledged and invited. So far that evening, I’d avoided approaching other tables for fear of intruding, but here was someone coming over to me. It took some of the pressure off immediately, so I accepted her gesture and joined them.
A few hours later, I was enjoying some delicious wedding cake for dessert, chatting and actually smiling. I’d been sitting with them all evening, having lively conversations about our jobs and our cats. We even discovered that we’d gone to the same high school, and reminisced about the past. All night, I’d expected to feel like the third wheel, as if I was somehow imposing on them, but they made me feel like I could truly be myself. Even more surprising, neither my single status nor my disability came up in conversation. At all.
For once, I felt like I blended in with the crowd. Maybe I’d created that sense of impending doom in my head before I even gave myself a chance to have a good time. Obviously trying new things can be incredibly scary, but I realized that doesn’t mean they’re destined to end in failure. When I relaxed and opened myself up to forming genuine connections with new people—regardless of whether I had someone else there with me to divert some of the attention—it was such a refreshing feeling. Somehow going to a wedding alone helped me feel more confident in myself. I was my own plus-one, and it turns out I’m a great date.
For the second time that night, I felt incredibly seen. This time it was in a good way.
Melissa Blake writes about relationships, disabilities, and pop culture. You can read her blog, So About What I Said, and follow her on Twitter.
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