Last night I went out with a group of old high school friends...with their group of significant others in tow for happy hour. Maybe I'm overly sensitive to my single status, but I couldn't help feeling like the lone Yankee fan in a sea of Red Sox hats. Just the left flip flop. The sore thumb. While my best friend attempted to console my irrational fear of being singled out...no pun intended...I couldn't help but feel anything but awkward. The happy couples were all equally charming and sweet; milling about speaking to everyone, but always coming back to each other to steal a kiss, a little reminder of their love in the crowded, noisy bar. Once during the night, someone asked me about my boyfriend and if he still lived in LA. I'm sure I looked a little confused as I explained that there was no Mr. Caitlin Skelly...on the west coast or otherwise. Although she made a valiant attempt, the girl who questioned me couldn't seem to straighten her face out of her own perplexed twist in time for me to not notice, or pass it off as gas. No boyfriend?! At one point I thought I had met a kindred single spirit in a girl who hadn't boomeranged back to any of the button down clad men for a smooch. And then she mentioned how much her husband would love the bar...if only he could have made it. Ah, yes. Married. So there I stood, Chardonnay in hand in the midst of vodka cranberries and beers, warily concerned about my pinky inadvertently sticking out and any unnecessary sashaying that may increase the notion that I've become that swinger chick who moved to LA and who now thinks that she's better than everyone in her singledom - which by the way could not be further from the truth. Well, the latter half at least.
I'm just not used to being around large groups of relationshipped people. My friends in California and I forge into our Friday nights with battle cries of "GIRLS' NIGHT!!!" Well of course it's girls' night. There are no constant men in our lives to inhibit it...therefore making basically every night of our lives girls' night. And yet we insist that this particular weekend is something singular and special...which ironically is much like how we would describe ourselves. We cling to the comfort that we have each other to call when that guy stood me up, or the one who forgot to mention the 4 year relationship he was currently in with his girlfriend, or even the one who cheated and casually mentioned it over a dinner out while the beef bourguignon was being served. Being single has not become a form of leprosy. It just means that we haven't found a guy who will show up, be single himself, and remain faithful. The right flip flop. And above all it means that we single folk should go out and enjoy the company of those who HAVE found the match, and bask in our table-for-oneness alongside their honeymooning. Because hey, you know you've seen this week's Real Housewives of New Jersey twice already.
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