Would-be spinster attends Southern 'bridal tea' social

The card was delivered by way of the United States Postal Service, specifically by our Route 1, Henderson, mailman. Once I had ripped open the envelope in a most unromantic fashion, I cheered at its contents — an invitation, with edges trimmed in a floral bouquet and a cursive header that read "Bridal Tea."

Being both a Southerner and socialite, I skipped about the house, flapping the card-stock invitation in hand. The pre-nuptial tea would honor a high school crony, Katie, whom I hadn't seen since our 10th year reunion.

Only days prior to the gathering, I enthusiastically chirped about the upcoming bridal tea while at work. A fellow colleague, stationed at a nearby computer, interrupted me.

"Doesn't it really depress you that all of your friends are getting married, and you're 30 years old and have no marriage prospects?" he inquired, peevishly peering through black-framed glasses that hung down the middle of his freckled nose.

"Absolutely not," I affirmed.

His questions continued, insinuating that my aging body and diminishing chances of male companionship would all culminate in the likelihood of my dying alone with a house full of felines. My colleague's crooked brow was accompanied by a glare as I declared I had no need, nor desire, for romantic companionship. He was aghast!

"I shall happily live and die an old maid," I said, stacking a bundle of newspapers below my desk and turning my attention to other matters.

Despite my spinsterly covenant, I eagerly planned my bridal tea attire. Shuffling through a closet of dresses, I opted for a sleeveless, green floral design, and a yellow cardigan to match.

"You look lovely," Mama confirmed with a grin, as I curtsied to her before shuffling out the door and onward to Louisburg.

Teas epitomize Southern grace and hospitality, as did the afternoon's affair. A table showered in decadent delights embellished the dining area. Chicken salad cupped in pastry shells, thinly sliced chocolate and lemon cakes, cheesecakes squares daintily dolloped with fruit — such were the sweet-tooth fancy fares. The attending ladies, each befittingly dressed for the feminine festival, waltzed from one welcoming embrace to the next.

The ease of the gathering was enhanced by the absence of men.

"Gina!" cried a former teacher, as we hugged one another and then exchanged our lives' happenings since my Louisburg High School graduation.

"Are you married yet?" came the question repeatedly asked that afternoon.

"Oh heavens no," I laughed. "I haven't bumped my head that hard!"

But just as my provoking colleague had reasoned days ago, most of my high school classmates had wed, and many were starting families.

"Where are you living now?" came the next inquiry.

No need to flaunt the reality. But had I, it would have sounded a bit like, "Oh, you know ... I've moved back home with my parents because I am absolutely broke. I have a pile of student loans, credit card debt and a failing FICO score that are forever my fate, that is, unless I purchase the winning lottery ticket from the Epsom crossroad's convenience store. And if I dared move out on my own, running water would be a luxury, as would Spam and Vienna sausages."

Luckily, a simple "Epsom" sufficed.

Despite my financial and unromantic lot, I beamed with genuine joy. And sharing an afternoon with my Franklin County counterparts, I was encouraged by their gaiety as well. Although our personal journeys varied, the afternoon tea provided an opportunity for sisterly communion. And with equivocal merriment, we celebrated our friendship while cheering the bride-to-be on her wedding, her fortune and her forever.

The Daily Dispatch, 2 May 2010