It was a Saturday in late spring, and the kind of morning where the mist clung to the rocky Maine coastline like an overly sentimental ex. I was standing in an oversized barn, split neatly down the middle with hay bales on one side and folding chairs on the other, wearing a pale yellow bridesmaid dress that, hands-on-heart, made me look like an unwrapped stick of butter. The wedding rehearsal was about to start, and I was cast in a role for which I hadn’t auditioned: the solo Mars rover in a room full of partnered satellites. That’s right—I was the lone single bridesmaid.

Of course, I’d been assured repeatedly that it wouldn’t be awkward. “You’ll be fine!” the bride had said breezily during one of our planning calls, brushing aside logistics like who I’d pair with for introductions and whether I wanted the chicken, fish, or vegetarian disappointment du jour. Her fiancé’s army of groomsmen had already been divided amongst the bridesmaids, leaving yours truly as the free agent destined for a spot somewhere between centerpieces and pitying glances.

But what nobody—least of all me—anticipated was that this innocuous weekend would test the limits of my sanity, dignity, and ability to gracefully sidestep well-intentioned matchmaking. Spoiler alert: the hay bales were the least of my problems.

The Opening Salvo: Aunt Eleanor and the Case of the “Eligible Bachelor”

The rehearsal brunch had barely started when one of the bride’s relatives—a dear soul I will call Aunt Eleanor, though she wore hostility like a brooch—joined me at my table. She led with what I’ve come to think of as the classic wedding opener: “Tell me, dear, why is a nice girl like you still single?”

I bit back my initial response—something involving Harriet the Spy and personal agency—and instead offered the diplomatic, “I’m focusing on myself right now.” Where one conversation might have sputtered out here. Aunt Eleanor pressed on like a heat-seeking missile. “But you aren’t too focused, are you?” she asked with an arched eyebrow. “Being single is fine, of course, but Robert—you know Robert, right? Widower, owns three fishing boats—he’s here this weekend. He’s very charming if you can overlook the crocs.”

Let me tell you: “charming” is a stretch for someone who spent the next hour regaling me with fish puns and juggling shrimp skewers. But as they say on true-crime podcasts: I survived.

Partner Dances and the Single Shuffle

Let me be clear: I have nothing against weddings. In fact, as someone who grew up attending more clam bakes than birthday parties, I’m used to communal celebrations where overly familiar strangers stand just slightly too close because, hey, we’re all family. What I wasn’t prepared for was the minefield of the choreographed “wedding events,” a gauntlet seemingly designed to make you feel every inch of your singlehood.

There was the dreaded dance rehearsal, of course, where couples paired off to learn a simple waltz. With no assigned “partner,” I became an impromptu choreographer-slash-scenery. This culminated in the dance instructor, a man wearing both suspenders and the smuggest grin I’ve ever seen, twirling me around in what I can only describe as the Human Weather Vane performance.

Then came the bouquet toss—an activity I calculatedly avoided by hiding in the coat closet. Why, you ask? Because experiences are meant to be savored, of course—and also because I was running short on excuses to avoid Aunt Eleanor.

Navigating the Well-Intended Cupid

If weddings are battlefields, the greatest skirmishes come courtesy of well-meaning charmers armed with unsolicited advice. “You’ve got to stop being so picky,” one groomsman said after complimenting my lobster-themed cocktail napkin. “My friend always says dating is like picking apples—you grab what’s good, not what’s perfect.”

Firstly, my Seacoast upbringing cannot abide such disrespect for apple orchards—there’s an art to apple-picking that would make Thoreau weep. Secondly, the implication that I should settle for any “unbruised fruit” that rolls down the dating aisle was, frankly, insulting to both me and my romantic prospects.

Another guest, a charming cousin I’d never met, took a slightly more modern approach: “You’ve got to manifest it! That’s the new thing now. Have you heard of vision boards?” she asked, nibbling a crabcake. Twenty minutes later, I was standing in the barn holding two pairs of scissors and an old Vogue cover as she lectured me on the cosmic importance of Pinterest. (Spoiler: my “vision” revolved mostly around dessert.)

Lessons I Didn’t Expect to Learn

By the end of the weekend, my emotional reserves were running low. I’d endured family interrogations, ham-fisted matchmaking attempts, and endured Hay Bale Robert’s version of small talk for what felt like geologic time. For a few moments, I considered skipping the ceremony altogether. But as I sat by the open barn doors that Saturday night, watching the sun dip below the salt marshes, I realized something quietly profound had shifted within me.

There’s something remarkable about moments that test your limits. You discover things about yourself—what you can endure, what you’ll laugh about later, and what parts of your personality (or preferences) are non-negotiable.

Here’s what I took away:

  • 1) Boundaries Are a Lifesaver: Whether it’s politely declining introductions or declining to engage in a conversation about fish magnets (Robert strikes again), it’s okay to opt out for your sanity’s sake.

  • 2) Humor Gets You Through Everything: Turning awkward situations into sitcom episodes in my head—a coping strategy born of my maritime upbringing—was essential for staying afloat.

  • 3) There’s Power in Being “The Single One”: People see singlehood differently—not as a flaw, but as a great, blank canvas. Use it as a chance to explore friendships, passions, and, yes, dessert tables without hesitation.

Butter Dresses, Bewilderment, and Being Real

Spoiler alert: I made it through the wedding. No unexpected romances bloomed beneath the lattice arch, and Robert’s jokes remained safely contained to the rehearsal dinner. But what I did come away with was a renewed appreciation for the tension between self-acceptance and societal expectation.

Being single doesn’t mean you’re missing something. Often, it just means you’re standing still long enough to admire the view. Whether that view involves salt marshes, floral corsages, or the occasional hay bale, take a moment to revel in it. And remember—if all else fails, there’s always leftover cake.