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On a Thursday night in the mountains of Karpenisi, not one building seemed more aglow than the house my friend grew up in. Decorated with fairy lights, she had turned her backyard into a high-end wedding venue straight out of a magazine, filled with her family and friends wrapped in conversation or energetically moving to the beat on the dance floor.
The most ethereal sight of all was my friend Zoe, dressed in white, with a smile that glowed and made the night sky even brighter. The thought of her marrying the love of her life was enough to make me fly across the world and over the Strait of Hormuz to watch her walk down the aisle.
And I wasn’t the only one.
Besides Zoe, there were four other girls whom I would consider as my ride-or-die. In a sense, we grew up together. All six of us had met in college in Boston, Massachusetts, in the United States, far away from our respective home countries, and we had clung to each other to make a chosen family. We logged many hours each day being attached at the hips: celebrating each other’s triumphs and holding each other’s hands through all the heartbreaks life had to offer. This was the first time in about 11 years we would physically be in the same city again and, since Zoe announced her wedding last year, I had been giddy just thinking about it. Of course, over the years, we’d crossed paths and stayed in touch with one another via sporadic phone calls, but it was different this time. This time I could actually type “gang’s all here” in my photo caption on social media; and we basically filled the week with more hugs and tears than we could ever remember.
It felt surreal to be in this magical town with its dramatic mountain tops and blue skies. Often dubbed Greece’s version of Switzerland, Karpenisi stands at an altitude of nearly 1,000 meters on the slopes of Velouchi. Yet here we were, reminiscing about what it means to have grown up together and to love each version of ourselves over the years. That was the unspoken bond that brought and held us together over a decade ago, that we would always be each other’s biggest champions and supporters.
Sometime after dinner (and too many glasses of wine) we all descended to the dance floor; and that’s when it hit me: all of my friends had brought their spouses and plus-one’s just in case the DJ sneaked in a mellow song or two for a romantic slow dance. As we moved to the music, I became wary of the space I was taking up.
Now that everyone was basically partnered up, it left me with a hollow feeling of being left behind. If we had all been moving through the same stages of life since we were 18, shouldn’t we have arrived at roughly the same place right now? For this specific party alone, shouldn’t there be someone I wished to share a dance with? Instead, I found myself wondering whether I was intruding, whether I had become that single friend they felt obligated to include in everything.
Thankfully, this was a Greek wedding, where tradition brings everyone together onto the dance floor in a flowing circle, hands linked by shoulders or palms. I shifted my attention to the rhythm of my footwork, in spite of the alcohol, and the smiles on my friends’ faces.
The slow music never came, and I didn’t fully surrender to the melancholy until much later in the night, alone in a hotel room with a bed meant for one. It was kept warm by the laptop resting on the mattress as I planned a bachelorette party back home for yet another friend due to be married in two months, as if the universe decided to exacerbate the blow.
To be hopeful, and honest, I tell myself this is a familiar feeling for many unmarried women in their thirties. Throughout our friendship, I have never been the one with exciting dating updates; and I’m perfectly content occupying the role of the chronically single friend. After all, every group seems to need one: someone to remind everyone else that relationships aren’t the only source of drama.
As I get older though, there are days when it seems I am one dating-related question away from moving to a new country to assume a new identity. Even opening Instagram feels like an ambush. My feed is littered with empty affirmations like “Your person is coming,” "Never settle,” “Be open to love”, which I had apparently double-tapped in my weakest hours.
Truth be told, plenty of us single folks actually celebrate our singlehood in the name of freedom. And while I still think there’s something liberating about opting out of the dating circus, the fear of ending up alone has certainly crept up on me. It’s as though my biological clock has been ticking a little louder with each birthday cake I receive since I turned 25. Dramatic? Absolutely. Normal? God, I hope so.
This fear rarely announces itself, though. Among the single people I know, it is often too vulnerable to address, let alone speak aloud. We celebrate our independence, joke about terrible dates, and insist we are absolutely okay on our own. But isn’t it the most human thing in all of us, whether we’re single or otherwise taken, to want to love and be loved? Sometimes, I think we should allow ourselves to grieve not having that yet. Better still, maybe even let ourselves grieve together.
The day after the party, I woke up in mild disbelief that my body could still carry me through until 5 a.m. without so much as a hint of a hangover. I patted myself on the back before heading downstairs for brunch. After all these years, some things, at least, stayed the same.
We talked about the weather, the party and the excitement of the coming days. By lunchtime, the thought of needing a plus-one didn’t even cross my mind. It still visits when I’m alone, but in the company of friends, it falls remarkably quiet.
Like the unspoken promise we made while sitting on the bathroom floor in our first apartments, drunk on $8 bottles of wine, the bond we forged in college remains another constant. One that I can always count on to put me in a better mood and pull me back to myself. Perhaps that’s the lesson: whenever we’re together, the worry recedes. This time is too rare, too precious, to spend it measuring my life against anyone else’s.
Alexa, play “WHERE IS MY HUSBAND!” by Raye because we desperately need another dance party.
