Weddings

     I  am 30. I am 30 years old; a sentence I didn't think I would ever have the chance to write. 30 seemed like such a far, distant land that from whose bourne no traveler returns.  For someone who wishes to imagine stories for a living , I was paralyzed by existential writer's block when it came to my own life. I never was able to picture life in my thirties. Sure, I could picture myself being a fabulous, elderly woman, with silver X-Men Storm hair and wearing fancy kitten heels and a linen daysuit, but everything in between seemed like a tall tale.
But here I am. I am 30. And now that I've arrived, I'm constantly plagued by the idea that I don't want to squander it. The last couple of years have been difficult on me, both mentally and physically. I've had my share of health crises and I'm still learning to cope with the survivor's remorse. I think constantly about the choices I'm making and whether my motivation and morals are steering me away from my desires and needs.
     I am 30 years old and I have nothing to show for it. Yes I have a job that I'm currently quite successful at. I use the word "currently" because I have every intention of quitting and becoming a librarian and reading to children with a sultry voice (this is totally going to be a thing). Yet this year alone I am going to 5+ weddings of close friends. Weddings that I'm thrilled that I get to participate in. While most  of the sophisticated elite look down upon the institution of government unions, nothing makes me happier. I don't enjoy romantic comedies or most "boy meets girl"  histories, I LOVE weddings. I think it's mostly the unlimited booze and the dry salmon, but something about weddings make me giddy. Sure I have to fork over two hundred dollars that was previously my month's food allowance, but I get to wear a fancy dress and dance to my favorite Donna Summers track. There's literally nothing better.
    While weddings should make me feel like a failure, they do exactly the opposite. Much like most people crave proximity to greatness to validate their own shortcomings, I look at weddings as single hood absolution. The more married people I know, the more likely I am not a spinster but rather a princess waiting to be pricked by Eros' bow.
     Earlier this year, I was able to attend the wedding of two of my best friends, Marc and Phillip. They were married in a lovely, picturesque hilltop in Upstate New York surrounded by their best one hundred family and friends. I wore a lime green sequined dress which was my own version of a mullet. While it was venue appropriate in the front, the dress had absolutely no back and exposed both of my side boobs (I should not that in the hierarchy of cleavage, my preference will always be 1. Underboob 2. Sideboob 3. Nipple 4. Topbobb. Always). I struggled most of the evening to make sure to never raise my arms above waist length for fear of being dubbed the slutty, ethnic friend (we can unpack POC's obligation to represent their entire race on a different essay). That struggle started at cocktail hour, where I was at the bar, getting two drinks (both for me). A lovely middle aged woman, whom we will call Patty, approached me.
 "I love your dress"
"Aww thank you so much"
"How do you know the grooms?"
    We continued our meet-cute and I discovered that she was a friend of the family of one of the grooms and she has known him since he was a little boy. We talked for about a minute and half and I complimented her on her navy sequin gown. Her face lit up. It was clear she was excited to be acknowledged by a thirty year old with a nipple sliding out of her dress. At the end of our mini-convo I told her I would see her on the dance floor.
     I rejoined the rest of my table as we made our way into the main dining room. I had several tequila cocktails (open bar) and took copious photos in the booth. After several lengthy speeches and a first dance, it was finally an opportunity for all of us to dance. I electric slide my way to the dance floor and joined the rest of my peers. About twelve Celine Dion songs in, I noticed Patty at table one. I beckoned her to join me. She was shy at first but I reminded her that she promised me a dance. Reluctantly, Patricia took my hand and we began to jive to the stylings of Robyn and Beyonce. Please hear me when I tell you with the most sincere honesty that Aunt Patty and I were FUCKING UP THE DANCE FLOOR. We were twirling, spinning, dipping and other moves I had only seen on Kenny Ortega choreographed sets. I'm not sure what style of dance we were subscribing to, but it encompassed a tango and rumba and it was FIRE.
      On one of the spins, I pulled Auntie P back to me and she held me close and whispered in my ear, "We have to stop". Abruptly and worried I looked down at Patricia, worried that I misjudged a woman of her age and one of my spins possibly fractured a hip. After a furtive glance, it appeared all her bones were in working order. "Why do we have to stop?" I asked her with legitimate concern. Hesitantly she answered "My husband". I am the first to admit that I am lacking of general understanding of most human interactions and on most day I feel more like an android rather than a homo sapient, but what her husband had to do with our bachata was perplexing. "What?" was all I could muster from my fog of Patron and confusion.
  " My husband is upset".
        I look up at the rest of table one, and there lies the man that I can only assume is Mr. Patricia. He had his arms crossed, legs shaking and actual steam coming out of his nostrils. He was shaking his head in familiar admonishment and it took me several minutes to realize that his anger was directed his Patty's dancing with me. Usually my immediate response is RACISM; a blanket answer that usually answer every injustice, whether veiled or not. However, this time racism felt incongruous, as if something larger was at play. Sensing my confusion, Aunt Patty kissed my cheek and leaned close into my ear and whispered "Thank you for a wonderful night" and then disappeared into the darkness of the night with her husband.
       I returned to my table (eleven) with tired feet and a lack of understanding. Why would a man be upset about his wife dancing with another woman? And then clarity slapped me in the face: Aunt Patty was on the down-low. Now for those that are uninitiated in the terminology that once appeared on the Oprah Winfrey show, "down-low" refers to someone who is hiding their true sexual desires from their partners, whether that be a certain fetish or certain need. Usually it refers to someone hiding that they are actually homosexual for their very heterosexual-partner. The look on Patty's husband's face wasn't disgust but rather shame that Patricia would disrespect him to his face--- again. This wasn't the first time that she's pulled this stunt. My imagination began to run wild. Did P leave the family when the boys were in middle school to be with her lesbian partner and follow Lilith Fair across the country? Did she embark on a Cherry Jones book tour and send her sons postcards from her travels while her husband was forced to tell the boys a lie about mommy going to self help conference? Did she come back to the family when he threatened to file for full custody and keep her progeny away from her? All of these seemed like real possibilities.
     I got back on my gold stilettos and marched over to table one. I was prepared to tell Patty that she didn't have to live a lie anymore. Yes I may not be a lesbian, contrary to my clothes, my looks, and my actions, but I knew one thing: life is short. Patricia deserved happiness and if being on a nudist colony with a woman that preferred to be called Jon was the key to her joy, I was going to encourage her to get it. We only get one life and we are never rewarded for wasting it. But when I got to table one, there was no sight of Patty nor her husband. I searched everywhere for her on the limited property but I never saw her. She wasn't on the shuttle bus that night. She wasn't at the hotel when we arrived. I was beginning to think I imagined her.
       What I do find myself imagining is that Patty's husband gripped her arm and ushered her out of the wedding out of embarrassment. He pulls Patty to the car and gives her an earful and Patty pulls a full Nicole Kidman a la BIG LITTLE LIES and tells him off. She vows to live her life for herself and calls an uber home. Yes it's an expensive uber but she will charge it to his card. She's going to start her life, finally at fifty seven years old. It might be a late start but it's still a start. And I had something to do with it. Me and my sideboob changed a life. That's all the motivation I need to live my thirties to fullest and that begins with burning my bras.