I am a single woman. I am a single woman writing for a wedding blog ... guilty as charged. I come to you "wedded-to-be"-ers with the plight of the non-wedded. You see, we pretend to hate the idea of the singles' table. But truth be told, there exists a level of singleton solidarity seldom found elsewhere ... at such an unabashed concentration at any rate.

Far be it for me to speak for all, but aside from blubbering over the father-daughter dance and looking forward to chicken supreme served with a medley of seasonal vegetables, I come to your wedding with a thinly veiled M.O.: The Pick-Up. I mean, how many opportunities does a girl over the age of eighteen have such a fantastic opportunity to strut her pretty?

Not that I don't adore my own friends and family. But when the DJ drops "At Last" and the dance floor turns into an advertisement for why I should down the entire bottle of Pinot Noir sitting in front of me, it would be nice to have a few folks left at my table with whom to commiserate. And no, second-cousins do NOT count ...