Fantasy is better than reality.

“Emotional truths can sometimes be conveyed more effectively, more compellingly, through fiction.”

-Diana Ossana

This trip was supposed to be a defining moment in my life as a single woman. I’m turning 26 in a month, and I’m very, very single. I guess I should start living the life of the independent woman I am destined to be. I owe my quest to Bridget Jones. As she sang “All by Myself” in her pajamas looking like a miserable wretch, I realized that the scene was way too close to my reality. Hence the solo trip to Ashland.

I planned the trip with an air of independence floating through my spirit. I ordered one ticket for each of the plays, and I joyfully chose the number “1” on the website’s drop-down menu labeled “number of guests." I’ve done this theatre-centered trip several times before, but never alone. I feel liberated and very cool.

The drive is so picturesque. I’m wearing my big sunglasses, my water bottle is full, the wind is blowing through my tussled hair, and Bob Seager and the Silver Bullet Band are the soundtrack for the drive. I note, with satisfaction, the freedom to choose my own music, apart from judging passengers. Yes, I will sing, “Night Moves” with zeal. Bite me.

As I arrive in that familiar town, those friendly butterflies take a tour through my stomach. I begin to regret my cute little trip. Who do I think I am? Will I just dine alone? Will intermission be awkward? Speaking of awkward, why did I choose a bed and breakfast? I have dinner (a veggie sandwich from the deli) in my room because, the truth is, I’m not very good at being a young, single person. I’m only content to be alone when I’m, just that, alone.

I look in the mirror, remind myself that this is a defining trip, and I put a little lip-gloss on my downturned lips. I change into my peasant top and brown corduroy pants, and I loop a long scarf around my neck. At least I know what to wear. I have mastered the look of the veteran theatergoer. I wear my ensemble with satisfaction.

The darkness of the theatre is even more magical in my solitude. I couldn’t have imagined this. There are no words to describe the ethereal experience of attending the theatre alone. The absence of whispers asking for quick explanations greets me with a peaceful, silent sigh of relief. I’m lost in the beauty of the language. I’ve come home.

I exit the theatre breathing more deeply. The energy of my fellow lovers of the dramatic muse is palpable. The night air seems to reach my soul. I feel so painfully alive. This is it.

Fuck Bridget Jones.

Surprising myself, I turn into the pub (did I even slow down to process the sign?), and I confidently sit at the bar, requesting a Fat Tire. She (the lanky, Irish bartender) seems relieved to see me. I’m “normal” and I’m sober. She doesn’t see many of my kind at her bar stools. We chat fluidly, and she brings me another.

The man I can’t believe exists climbs onto the bar stool right next to mine, and he joins our conversation. His closeness makes me uncomfortable, so I trace the outline of my coaster with my fingertips. Over and over again. It’s obvious that they know each other, but I feel like I know him, too. Is he really alone? How is he not creepy, and why is he sitting so close to me?

His crooked smile is so genuine and so sweetly awkward. He looks like he’s from Berkeley, or, well, Ashland. He is the type who would sell screenprinted tees on Etsy. I like that type. He has my eager affection within minutes. He confesses that he is a writer (I wonder what that means), but he bartends at the pub because he likes to eat. Organic, whole foods, I guess. He talks about his writing as a means to bring about social change. To say I like this guy and what he represents seems silly. Obvious, even. Do I even need to tell you that he wears plastic framed glasses and his hair is curly and brown? I didn’t think so.

We wander the street, and the friction from his shoulder that keeps brushing against mine (intentionally? I wonder) seems to rub away my inhibitions. We collapse into the bench near the brook, I lean into his chest, and I want to ask him if he’s for real and if I’m one of many, but I’m terrified. I don’t want to hear the answer, so I don’t ask.

He kisses me and awkwardly confesses, “I’ve never done this before. The girls who come into the pub are almost never what I want, but you’re different.” If he only knew. I tell him that I’m not the girl who usually comes into the pub, and I’m faking this whole confident, independent woman thing. He laughs and I raise my eyebrows, smile to the side, and nod, so he knows I’m for real. He gently kisses my forehead and we laugh together this time.

He drove me, in my car, back to my room. I wouldn’t let him leave. I never did let go.

The trip to, for the first time, boldly embrace my singlehood altered my reality. Oh well. I never was very good at being single, anyway.