The Wedding and the Single Girl

The Wedding and the Single Girl

AKA the time I almost made out with a groom, dodged IVF trauma bonding, and started a brawl in heels.

There are few things more dangerous than attending a small-town wedding when you're single, fabulous, and freshly out of f*cks.

It starts, as these disasters always do, with a cursed Facebook invite. You know the kind — a pastel graphic of two people you barely tolerated in high school, announcing that they're sealing their mediocrity with vows, potato salad, and a cash bar. Against my better judgment (and at the insistence of my gay best friend, who lives for this kind of chaos), I RSVPed yes.

Bad move. Or maybe the best move? Honestly, the jury’s still out.

The Outfit That Started It All

I walk into the reception hall like I’m late for a revenge plot — in a silk, backless jumper that says “I escaped, I glow now.” Apparently, that’s not small-town-wedding-approved attire. Judging by the gasps and the clenched pearls, you'd think I showed up naked or carrying a flaming pitchfork.

Their eyes? Laser beams. Their whispers? Sharper than the steak knives wrapped in plaid napkins on the tables. The girls I used to dodge in the hallways were now sipping Moscato with their high school sweethearts turned bloated husbands, looking at me like I was the problem.

Oh, honey. I am the problem. Let’s go.

One girl — Mandi. Yes, that Mandi, the queen of youth group purity rings and passive-aggressive Facebook quotes — lets out a little laugh-snort combo and says, “It must be sad that she’s 27 and not married.”

Unfortunately for her, I was already three drinks in and just entering my “no filter, no fear” era.

I turned, dead in the eyes:
“Yeah… I decided not to get divorced.”
Cue gasp. Sip. Mic drop.

Let the Bitch Games Begin

Mandi, never one to back down from a losing battle, fires back with a limp insult about how I had to bring a gay friend as a date. Something about it being “sad” and “fake.”

I wanted to ruin her life. Briefly considered seducing her husband for sport, just to see if he’d bite (spoiler: he was already mentally halfway there), but I restrained myself like a lady. A lady with tequila breath and revenge in her bones.

Instead, I took another shot and fired:
“At least I’m not fat.”
Not my proudest moment, but in the heat of war, we shoot to kill.

Her comeback? Predictable.
“At least I’m not a whore.”
yawn

Girl. That was ten insults ago. You’re gonna bring up the streaking incident? I was eighteen. It was a dare. And I looked fantastic.

So I smiled. Sweetly.
“It really hurts knowing that an uptight prude who’s never been properly finger-banged thinks I’m a whore.”

Boom. Table check. Champagne chug. Bar exit. I deserved an Oscar for that scene alone.

But Wait… There's Trauma Tea

Just when I thought I was free, the universe delivered its favorite plot twist: forced sympathy bonding over infertility. Mandi plops herself beside me at the bar and launches into a hormonal sob story about IVF and her uterus and how “no one understands the pain.”

Now listen — I could have shown compassion. I could have offered a tissue and a fake nod.

But I was six shots deep and dangerously close to saying what I actually thought. And then I did.

“Some people just aren’t meant to procreate.”

She Hulk-smashed across the table. I swear she flew. Like, mid-air. Hair bobby pins twinkling in the air like shrapnel. I laughed — until I felt her claws in my scalp.

Table flips. Chairs crash. My heels go skyward. I landed on the floor like a fallen queen. My gay best friend tried to break it up, but only succeeded in getting rosé on his suit jacket and screaming “Not the jumpsuit, it’s vintage!”

Security (yes, there was security — you can’t trust open bars and cousin fights) escorted us out. I held my champagne flute like a trophy.

The Single Girl Returns

And here’s where the universe threw a final dagger. As I’m sitting on the curb, mascara-smudged, hair slightly scalped, licking my emotional wounds and pretending to be unbothered — he pulls up.

The Self-Appointed Ideal Fckboy.*
My ex. The one who said he “wasn’t ready for commitment” and then proposed to a Pilates instructor two months later.

He was at the wedding. Of course. Small town. Shared trauma. The whole package.

He smirked. I rolled my eyes. And we did what we always do when we see each other: pretend not to care while silently wondering if we should hook up for the memories.

We didn’t. (I had wine bloat and pride.) But the idea was there. Lurking. Like a bad idea in a tight tux.

Moral of the Story?

Don't be a single, sloppy, drunken whore at a wedding where your ex, your bully, and your buried rage all RSVP'd yes.

Want more unfiltered chaos? Check below for more dating disasters. If you have a dating disaster, please email me and I will roast it for you at yourdatingunexpert@gmail.com . Don't worry, I'm not about saving email addresses and spamming you to oblivion with worthless emails. Unless you want me to, then I'm here for it.