Party of One

{This post along the lines of creative nonfiction / personal essay is something I penned in real time while waiting for Fictionist's Rooftop Concert in downtown Provo almost exactly a year ago. It was an interesting experience--I started writing without knowing how it would end. Thankfully, the ending came, and it was lovely. Enjoy.}

Under an open, blue sky, dotted with the hazy, thin clouds of waning sunlight, musicians checked the sound for the first concert of the summer atop a parking structure in the old-fashioned downtown of a college town. The crowd streamed in—pairs, trios, groups of all ages, families, college students, couples old enough to be the artists’ parents or grandparents.

At the front of the bunch sat two striped blue beach chairs—one occupied by a tall brunette in a lavender cardigan, the other filled by a purse, a book, a couple of blankets, and a bottle of VitaminWater Zero.

Alone.

At 28, rolling solo was hardly a new experience for the gal. Years before, after missing a much-anticipated Andy Warhol retrospective at the L.A. County Museum of Art for lack of a fellow aesthete, the freckle-faced 19 year old vowed to never skip an experience or adventure she craved, even if it meant going alone.

And she hadn’t. Growing independent and strong, she moved to Seattle alone at 20, savoring every second of that long two-day drive from her native California (minus those miserable two hours of food poisoning, of course—never get a shake from a roadside shack in Glendale, Oregon!). Alone she graduated from BYU and returned to California, leaving behind her best friends who had all wed or become engaged within a calendar year. Alone she’d made a career, taken trips, made major life decisions, and tried with all her heart to embrace the independence (and ignore the loneliness) that came with her singleness.

And now, alone she sat, uneasily awaiting her favorite band’s outdoor concert.

The empty chair wasn’t a ruse exactly—after all, her roommates said they might come, or she could possibly run into a friend… acquaintance… someone or anyone who’d appreciate a comfortable chair and warm, fleecy throw blanket.

Or, she realized with a resigned sign, she just might be alone in the crowd, accompanied by nothing but her blankets and an empty chair.

“How much longer?” she wondered as she scanned the crowd, a faint sadness tempering the warmth in her hazel eyes. The masses began to fill in all around, crowding in the space she’d so carefully reserved hours earlier. A handsome acquaintance passed by, and in his brown eyes she could read the question—“Is she alone?”—or at least so she thought. Another familiar face breezed past, an old high-school acquaintance offering a warm hello without stopping; he probably assumed that second seat was otherwise reserved. And even if it wasn’t, it wouldn’t be spacious enough for him and his wingmen. After all, who goes to a concert alone?

“How much longer until I get a yes or no from Elise or Christina, until I know if they're coming?”

But the question went deeper.

How much longer would she have to be a party of one? How many more friends would fall in love, have babies, grow their families to two, three, four, five… while she stood on the sidelines, alone? How many more crushes and relationships would come and go, leaving her with a broken heart and the lingering question of whether she would have been better off not trying in the first place? The brides and grooms got younger each year; the friends’ children just got older and older instead.

Then a movement caught her eye—an auburn-haired mother struggling with a beautiful toddler daughter, searching for a spot within the crowd.

“You’re welcome to sit here,” the brunette offered, moving her belongings from the extra chair.

“Are you sure it’s not saved for someone already?” the young mother asked.

“No, it’s all yours,” she replied with a smile.

With that, the mother and her child settled in, promising to make room for the brunette’s friends when (“if,” the brunette thought with a twinge of sadness) they came. The women chatted, enjoying the sounds of the opening acts and the connection inherent in friendly faces and open hearts. The brunette’s friends did come—but first came the new friendship forged with the young mother and her baby girl, if only for that beautiful, warm spring evening. 

Unattached, solo, single—call it what you will, being a party of one is just being a party of one, no more, no less. But alone? No, alone is a choice—a decision to view life through the lens of heartbreaking isolation. And that evening, the brunette learned the valuable lesson that being a party of one doesn’t mean you have to be alone.