I sat on a small white folding chair on the manicured grounds of a mansion in rural Maryland, feeling as though I’d stumbled onto the set of a photo shoot for Ralph Lauren. I imagined I could hear the hoofbeats of polo ponies in the distance and the reckless shouts of idly rich, chicly disheveled swells mounted up for a swift chukka or two. In reality, I was alone by the side of a lazily gurgling fountain, watching a drowned frog bob in slow orbits around the perimeter of the pool, caught in some unseen but inexorable current. I raised a plastic cup of Riesling in grim salute as he made another pass in my direction. I could so relate.

I was among about 200 people who that afternoon had attended a full-scale Italian wedding in an ornately embellished church in downtown Washington, DC. I’m no expert, having been reared in unadorned Protestantism, but my guess is there was enough gold leaf, mosaic, and statuary per square inch at Holy Rosary Catholic Church to make the Pope feel right at home. The ceremony included a lengthy mass, with plenty of audience participation in the form of standing, kneeling, sitting, singing, candle lighting, kneeling, standing, etc. One can only assume that by the time it was all over, the young couple felt thoroughly wedded. After the service, the bridal party stayed behind for photographs while we guests made our way to the rented mansion for drinks and hors d’oeuvres.

We had been thus engaged for the last two and a half hours, awaiting the arrival of the guests of honor before we could be escorted inside for a sit-down dinner reception. So I’d had plenty of time to confront the unfortunate truth that single women at a wedding are a “problem.” The whole affair celebrates the concept of couplehood, we-ness, and conjugal bliss, making the presence of single or divorced women of a certain age somewhat awkward, a reminder that there is not necessarily a prince for every princess or, worse yet, that the concept of undying love that we are all ostensibly here to celebrate and affirm may not live up to all the hype. Place in this setting a woman for whom social mingling qualifies as an extreme sport and you have the makings of a truly disappointing wedding guest.

Not that anything was actually amiss. The bride was a friend and former colleague, and I was genuinely glad to see her so radiantly happy, basking in her Cinderella moment. I was in a lovely location, and for once I knew I looked good, having taken special pains to spruce myself up for the occasion. And let’s be real—for a woman in any social setting, that’s half the battle. I can imagine a conversation at the foot of the guillotine as Marie Antoinette prepared to mount the stairs. One of her ladies-in-waiting catches her elbow and murmurs, “Bummer about the beheading, Your Majesty,” and the queen replies, “Oui… but my new gown, she is to die for, n’est-ce pas?”

 The mansion and grounds were magnificent in the warm twilight. The lush lawns and towering trees provided a perfect setting for a gaggle of children who raced around playing hide-and-seek. The boys stripped off their oversized jackets and rolled up their pant-legs, while little girls in mounds of tulle scampered barefoot across the grass like dandelion fluff in the wind. The adults, only a few of whom I was acquainted with, were clearly enjoying each other, the open bar, and generous helpings of prosciutto and fresh fruit. There was nothing wrong with the company or the setting. I was merely, as I am unaccountably prone to be, outside the circle of conviviality.

I made occasional forays onto the patio where groups of people were continually forming and reforming like microbial life forms. In my last sortie I had attached myself to a group that contained a few people I knew from work. Some man was describing his two pet turtles and the elaborate tank he had built to house them. I smiled and nodded in humanoid fashion, but my mind kept wandering off. I found myself staring at the back of his neck, mentally timing a drop of sweat that slowly descended a thin clump of hair and vanished into his shirt collar. After a few more minutes I drifted back to the chair by the fountain and meditated on a gnarled poplar tree.

Earlier, at one of the tables in the foyer, I had picked up a tiny card with my name printed on it informing me that I would be seated at the reception at Table 14. During the protracted cocktail hour I had made some discreet inquiries and found that no one else I knew was seated at Table 14. I pondered the implications of this as the drowned frog made another orbit of the fountain. He hadn’t been dead long, the only sign of decomposition being one grotesquely bulging eye. His legs drifted away from his body as he bobbed face-down in a perfect semblance of dead man’s float. He looked as though at any moment he would raise his head and sputter, “Did you see that? Did you see how long I can hold my breath?” But he just kept bobbing and circling, his limp corpse so unseemly at this celebration of life. That’s what aroused my sympathy for him, the sense of being out of place, like a spider on a birthday cake or a turd in a punchbowl. It’s precisely what I envisioned was awaiting me at Table 14.

I looked up again at the ancient poplar tree that over the decades had weathered countless storms and housed transient populations of birds, squirrels, raccoons, and parasites, accepting its changes without expectation or complaint. It reminded me that I had traveled too far along the road to wholeness to let myself once again fall into the trap of catastrophizing a situation—anticipating the worst based on hardly any evidence and suffering in advance over things that hadn’t happened yet. So I pulled myself together, and instead of thinking, “I’m going to feel so awkward and out of place at a table full of strangers,” I dusted off a well-worn mantra that has done yeoman service for me over the years: “I wonder what will happen?” The beauty of this simple question is that it’s disaster-neutral. It could as well be asked by a passenger on the Titanic who has just felt an ominous lurch as by a child eyeing a pile of Christmas presents. It quiets the imp whispering in your ear, “Run! Run away fast!” and opens your heart to receive any outcome—even a good one.

My reverie was interrupted by a member of the catering staff announcing that dinner was served and gently herding us all inside. I shuffled in near the back of the line of guests. Having rendered myself open to the unfolding of events, I was nonetheless unprepared for one eventuality—that there wouldn’t be a Table 14. I entered the large, glass-walled reception hall and was confronted with a sea of round tables, each set for eight people and designated by a numbered card in the center. Directly in front of me were three tables filled with men and women I knew from work, along with their spouses and dates. These tables had clearly been reserved for the bride’s former colleagues, of which I was one. But according to the cards, these were Tables 13, 15, and 16. I strolled around the immediate vicinity looking for a card with the number 14 on it and passed a 12, a 17, even a 10, but no 14. Feeling a tad anxious (and conspicuous), I widened my orbit to take in all the tables on this side of the reception hall before crossing over to search on the other side.

On my second circuit I found Table 14 in the farthest corner, in the back of the room, near the door leading to the bar and the bathroom. It was occupied by four women and one man, all about my age, none of whom I knew. I had seen two of the women earlier, sitting together on the far side of the fountain, handbags tucked neatly under their chairs. They both were wearing white cardigans over their party dresses. I stifled the little imp at my ear who was just about to whine, “Oh god,” and, without pausing for thought, pulled out a chair and sat down. “Hello!” I said brightly, smiling at each person in turn. They smiled back and we introduced ourselves around the table. It turned out that all of them were either relatives or former coworkers of the bride’s mother. The two women in cardigans were retired school teachers, one of whom beamed at me and said, “We’re so glad to have someone new sitting at our table. A young couple was seated here for a while, but a few minutes ago they just got up and left.” She turned to her friend and winked. “We were starting to get a complex.” The man at the table gently nudged a furled napkin a little closer to my plate and asked if I would like more water.

After a few minutes of introductory conversation, a friend from work pulled out the chair at my left and slipped in beside me. She said, “We’ve got an empty seat at our table if you want to come over with us.” She jerked her head slightly, indicating the other side of the room where my colleagues were seated together. My tablemates went silent. I glanced around and saw them all looking at me. The two school teachers stared wide-eyed and for a moment seemed to float motionless above the surrounding hubbub.

I turned to the friend who had so generously undertaken my rescue. “No, thanks,” I beamed. “I’m staying here with these folks.” I gestured at the five new faces arrayed around me. “We’re Table 14.” The teachers smiled at each other. The man started taking drink orders. It was going to be a delightful evening.