Being the Odd One In

Last night was our company gala. Assigned tables, dinner, speeches—the whole thing. It was also a plus-one event.

I’ll admit there was already a small sadness in going alone. Nothing dramatic. Not an I can’t bear to go kind of sadness. Just that familiar little twitch: Ah. Here is another way I will not quite fit in.

When I found my table, I realized I had been seated with three married couples.

And it was fine. Truly. I knew everyone, the conversation flowed, and I never felt unwelcome. I was included in every way that mattered. In some ways, my singularity afforded me more attention and kindness.

But then came the toast.

I knew what would happen before it did. Each person turned first toward the one beside them, raising a glass to the person they had arrived with. And there I was, lifting mine into the air.

Only for a second. Then the circle widened, glasses reached across the table, and everyone toasted everyone.

But that second stayed with me.

It wasn’t that I was alone. It was the sudden visibility of being unpaired—the way an ordinary ritual can quietly divide a room into twos and leave one person holding her glass without a natural place to turn.

There is a particular feeling in being the odd one in.

Not excluded. Not unwanted. Not even necessarily unhappy.

Simply present in a world arranged around something you do not have.

Most of the time, I move easily through that world. But every now and then, a place card or a plus-one invitation or a raised glass catches the tender edge of it.

And for one small moment, I remember that belonging and fitting in are not always the same thing.