There are certain occasions that come up in life that one often dreads to attend. Funerals. Job Interviews. Pap smears. Blind dates.
For a single woman in her forties…there is nothing worse than getting an invite to a wedding. It’s like being sentenced to death, only far worse, as the meal is usually not as good.
I’m getting ready to attend my third wedding of the year this coming weekend, and while I’m happy for the bride and groom, I can’t help but feel a little sorry for myself as, yet again, somebody else is getting married who is not me. Hell, I’m just going to say what I’m not supposed to say, (at least out loud), I’m jealous. Not fairy-tale-evil-queen-jealous where I wish harm to the happy couple and want to steal their first born, (we’ll save my baby issues for another blog), but I’m envious because I want what they have for myself.
So there. I’m having a pity party. And the party’s been going on for a good ten years now.
I’ve been really trying not to let things get to me, but in 2017, there has been an abundance of engagements, weddings and babies. And since we, as a society, must share our every move on social media, it’s all I see and read about, all day long. I guess I could stop checking Facebook, Instagram and the other culprits so much…but that would be too logical. I prefer to be miserable and irritated.
I haven’t always feared going to weddings, but as I’ve grown older, I’ve built somewhat of an 
intolerance. There’s something about a single woman in her forties at a wedding that makes people really uncomfortable. And that discomfort is returned to me with stares and smirks that make me feel like I’m the lonely leper, standing in the corner, picking at my grotesque skin, and eating it.
Shame on me. I don’t have a plus one at the wedding, or in life. I should be taken out back and shot.
