The Other Side of The Table

An examination of seating charts at a twenty-something's birthday in LA

I spent last Friday Night at another twenty-something's birthday in LA... another weekend, another opportunity for the girls and the gays to get together at their favorite West Hollywood watering hole and taco spot, Escuela. After arriving 25 minutes late (and still not being the last one there), the birthday girl directed my friend and I to our preassigned seats, labeled with our names. I quickly grasped that seats were methodically designated based on two things. One, relationship status, and two, an existing connection that neither participant was formally aware of. I sat next to a woman named Maddie, she shared my little sister's name. It’s safe to say we were off to a strong start. In the next thirty seconds of meeting, I learned she had gotten married a few months ago. I shared I had just gotten engaged. 

“When? How long ago!” she exclaimed. “October 5th!” I said proudly, beginning to grin. There was something devilishly satisfying about getting to share the engagement story with fresh ears, especially someone who has reveled in that joy themselves. 

My friends' seating placement continued to elicit stellar points of connection. 

“Where do you live?” I asked. 

“Down in Long Beach, my husband is in Seattle,” she replied. 

“No way! Why’s that? Where in Seattle? This is such a small world, my fiancé is from Seattle!” I said with unprecedented speed and a degree of surprise.

“He’s on the Seattle Mariners, he lives in Tacoma!” I continued to smile ear to ear. I tried to place Tacoma on a map, and quickly scanned my memory for the folder of things my fiancé had told me about Tacoma. 

I learned the woman next to Maddie had just gotten engaged in September and the woman across from her was 6 months pregnant. Her baby bump was beginning to show. 

The stark reality hit that I was now forever on the “engaged, married, pregnant” side of the table versus the “single, dating, budding love” side, a strange mix of solace, realization and maybe even a small splash of grief came over me.

I felt a relief in escaping the uncertainty, pain, rejection, and overall disillusionment from dating in LA, but a pang in my mind and chest. A moment of doubt (maybe fear), not about the choice itself (of marrying the love of my life), but of the overwhelming unknowns this next chapter held. The metamorphosis that I felt very ready for, but was unsure of when it was actually going to hit. For instance, moving in and sharing our first home (we live independently now). The possibility of learning he hates the way I organize our pasta shelves. That he has more of a green thumb than me. That his socks disappearing into the abyss of the washing machine, only to re-emerge in mismatched pairs will transition from a point of laughter to an actual problem. That I’ll get sick of his playlist, “Vogue.” The reshaping of our dreams to fit into only one, shared canvas.

I was deep in my own thoughts and self reflection before being snapped back to the present moment by my best friend demanding, “Maggie, what do you want? Are we sharing the other taco? You know what, no. Let’s both get our own.” I sat in thought a little while longer after co-ordering, my silence accompanied with the muffled soundtrack of 20+ girls & gays eagerly and drunkenly sharing their order with our extremely patient waitress. I heard a flood of “wagyu taco, chicken taco, wagyu taco, potato taco,” one after the other. A meal of two tacos and unlimited margaritas promised a fruitful birthday celebration. 

I returned to conversation at our end of the table, leaning into my best friend, who happened to be in a budding relationship of 4 months. She had just met his parents for the first time. By association, we were inseparable when it came to table charting. Assigned seating rules did not apply to us. Between my best friend and the pregnant friend, was a woman (we’ll call her Zee) also in a budding love dynamic. The realization poked another hole in my table theory. She was not engaged, married or pregnant, but we did have an existing connection we both were rudimentarily aware of — our partners did some work together in music. 

Zee shared her meet-cute of connecting on Hinge, deciding she was not ready to be in a relationship, but that he was simply too sexy not to sleep with. This went on for months until one day the sexual connection turned into a five hour plus date on the beach. The build up of ruthless transparency and pure candor post-sex, developed a connection that was undeniable. I liked hearing her recount that, in many ways, it was the best way to start dating. They were not trying to be anyone else except for themselves. They had nothing to prove to one another. They didn’t care to impress one another. They shared pains, woes, trials, tribulations of daily life to safe, listening, unprejudiced ears. There were no expectations, just the reality of two hot people enjoying sex. And they fell in love. It was a modern love story. 

She spoke about the peace he brought her. There were no doubts ever, she promised. She knew what doubts felt like. Zee, now enthralled with the ex-fuck buddy turned lover, shared the relief of breaking up with her previous partner after 3 years. She said it was the best thing she ever did for herself. She mentally panned out for him to be her husband and accepted him and their relationship for what it was. But as hard as she tried, the intrusive thoughts did not escape her. Her thoughts told her he was not the one, reminded her that he did not exemplify the masculine energy she craved, and that he relied on her for both his identity and joy in life. 

Then she said something we both were waiting for, “But, I’m 27. You know?” She looked around our corner of the table and in my head I even remembered her rubbing her friend's belly next to her, “I don’t want to fuck around and wait around for something anymore. I’m getting old! I want to be in love and have a family one day.” 

I am always shocked when a girl friend shares this sentiment, but I know it is our reality. I know it’s our bodily clock. I still felt young to be engaged. A close friend I grew up with in Chicago once jokingly called me a “child bride.” As dark as a joke aside, it calmed me. It confirmed I wasn’t completely delusional, we are still young. 

“Yes. Exactly! I get that! It’s so much pressure,” my best friend exclaimed. We had been discussing this exact subject with intensity on our way to dinner. I felt the empathy growing between them. 

Dating at 27 is far different than dating at 24. At 24, there’s a blissful ignorance and lack of pressure that allows room for love to grow without expectation. At 27, there’s a level of self responsibility, assessment and management. You accept the person you are dating for their whole self, make peace with intrusive thoughts or you start over fresh.

A deeper joy anchored me in the present. My seating chart theory wasn’t entirely correct, but I saw my side of the table differently.

This side of the table held its own kind of thrill, the adventure of unconditional love and relentless support. I feel lucky to have found it.