By Dara Lehon

Maybe it's the freaky hype over infertility and women aged 27 - and my being that age. Maybe it's friends no longer getting married, but being married and having babies. Maybe it's a recent breakup with a man who seemed ready to commit for a lifetime. Whatever the case, as a single woman in a crowded world (and especially city) that can seem very lonely (yet busy and crowded), it's easy to feel that the long, winding journey of life was meant to be traveled in tandem.

This point was recently drilled into my head as, after a few weeks of deliberation, I decided to attend my college-friend's wedding stag. Alone. Sans date. Solo. I had been invited with my aforementioned ex-boyfriend, whom, to preserve his namesake, I refused to replace with an alternate. As the big day drew near, a conversation discussing flowers and processions with the bride-to-be alerted me that not only would I be THE ONLY woman attending alone (Great Aunt Betty excluded), I'd be the only PERSON my age without a guest.

Gulp.

I hung up the phone and hastily scrolled through my personal email address book, flipped open my cel phone, and asked someone (ok someoneS) to escort me. But with four days notice and little to offer other than a purely platonic experience, I was out of luck. A maturing pessimist, I tried to look on the bright side of being alone: I'd get a ride in a five-seater, I'd have a smaller gift obligation, and of course, let's not forget the open bar. It would be fun.

Well.

I made it through the squishy backseat drive, joking about my bachelorettedom amongst my coupled friends. I survived the cocktail hour, elbowing couples to participate in the room-filling chatter. I made myself essential to the shmorg, reserving tables, getting drinks, and tag teaming to the formidable sushi bar. I even cried at the ceremony.

Then came the reception.

I squeezed between one friend and another's gay-best friend (brought to avoid the very stagnancy stigma -- which I was about to experience).

And, in a snap, it happened.

The photographer, scoping Kodak moments to etch into my friend's photo-memory, swung by. Distinguishing a pal and her husband, he snapped a keeper. Without missing a beat, I was motioned to duck aside to capture the gleeful smiles of my other friend and her partner. Agreeably, I leaned again so he could immortalize my friend and her gay-best bud. The order seemed a bit odd, but I smiled anyway, prepping for what I thought would be my big memorializing moment that would surely grace many pages of the bride's wedding album. I even grinned and laughed at my singledom until -- I noticed that the photographer didn't exactly take my photo. Instead, I watched him look in my direction, put his camera down and pass me by.

Yes, PASS ME BY.

Now, I know I'm no supermodel, but I'm certainly not ugly. And even if I were, I'd still be my friend's ugly friend/guest, right? Needless to say my smile quickly disintegrated as I became fully aware that apparently, without a date, and according to what would be the album of my friend's lifetime, alone, I did not exist. And to worsen an already unpleasant situation, as the bride and groom did their rounds, apparently, alone, I did not merit an actual greeting. Instead, it seemed I only got a wave and smile from across the table, while my coupled partners got full minutes -- entire moments -- of their time.

Was this my destiny?

I quickly acquainted Angela, my server, with my vanilla Stoli affinity and by her seventh visit, my smile had returned (albeit slightly toothy).  I mocked the wedding antics -- the cheesy songs, the toasts, the silly cake ceremony and the poofy white dress destined for the closet. (ok, Ok so I want a wedding too). I thought of the fun, fun single-life that awaited me in the city where I could do what I wanted when I wanted where I wanted. Alone. For the entire summer. In an amazing city. And suddenly I was counting the minutes to the end of this hellish event.

Maybe the 8th drink wasn't such a great idea.

Mid-best man speech, I excused myself from Angela for a brief bathroom-stall ball and crouched, picturing myself at baby showers, housewarmings, bar mitzvahs and retirement parties -- alone. I thought of the 300 square foot studio I'd still be living in because there's "just no need" for more. I saw myself seated at a table for two alone in my favorite restaurant and never having someone gesture for the bill. I'd never get those gym deals where you join with your partner and save money.

On that toilet seat, in that dress, life, at only 27 and single was over. I yanked the resistant toilet paper dispenser and muffled my cries.

Twenty minutes later, two partnered friends discovered my nose blowing and dragged me from my cavern. I glanced in the mirror at the tiny girl who was called last for Red Rover. The one who wouldn't climb social ladders, who was too skinny to fill out her clothes. I blew my nose again and looked closer. I was wrong - there stood a beautiful woman - tall and graceful (yet blotchy and messy), with a sense of humor and pride that allowed her to exist on her own. This woman deserved a photograph -- even if it were alone.

I popped an Advil, borrowed some wedding-bathroom basket goodies, and pasted my smile back on. The band began its rendition of "Lady in Red" (which I actually happened to be wearing) and I watched my coupled friends find each other. They proceeded to waddle, out of sync, in tandem with the rest of the coupled room. I scooted back to watch them sing to each other and step on each other's toes. Red Rover jingled in my head as I recalled a lesson from a "Judaism for Dummies" book that I picked up in a Barnes & Nobles (no, I didn't buy it): not only is it a mitzvah - a good deed - to wed, but those who don't should be pitied.

Who, me? Pitied?

Granted the image of a pretty girl in the corner with ruined mascara, a puss on and random hair products in her mop top at a wedding looked fairly pitiful. But this pitiful image was not exactly ready to be pitied. So with my glass in hand, and like an original ABBA member, I joined the other women for the ultimate in wedding cheese on the dance floor. We were dancing queens and we shook in our fancy dresses like only circles of girls at yesteryear's Polyesther's can. The bride flaunted her impractical big white dress and took to the center, while the groom and other males surrounded, finishing their shots of alcohol, exchanging banter.

The photographer, again scoping moments to etch into my friend's commercialized contractual agreement scrapbook, zoned in on our growing group of girls--no, women. Moving me to the center with his free hand, he snapped the photo, smiled, and gave it a "thumbs up." Ahh, an ideal photo of women enjoying their individualism as a group. I laughed a real laugh as it became clear to me that it seems nice to have a partner for those slow songs, I'd rather wait for someone with whom I can learn to tango, and salsa, and swing properly.

And as for the photographer: we have a date next week.

Dara Lehon is a freelance writer living in New York City. More of her work can be found in www.thesquaretable.com archives and on www.moxiemag.com. She can be reached at dlehon@yahoo.com.