Is This Love?

When the waiter held out mustard-encrusted chicken in one hand and ginger-glazed salmon in the other, I shook my head helplessly. I wasn't sure which I'd pre-ordered for this particular wedding, my sixth of the summer. I wasn't sure I remembered the groom's last name. All I was sure of was that at some point during the evening, well-meaning friends would sidle up to me and my then-boyfriend and ask whether the occasion was "giving us any ideas."

Grant and I had been together a little more than a year, and I had no certainty that we would, or should, tie the knot. I'd felt mostly comfortable with uncertainty until the summer I was 29, and a marriage epidemic spread among my friends. Perhaps you've experienced this phenomenon: a stretch of time when the majority of your peer group goes from single to married. You'll know you're in an epidemic if the word "shower" makes you think of gifts rather than hygiene, if you have more Save-the-Date magnets than fresh food in your kitchen, or if you can navigate Crate and Barrel's online gift registry with your eyes closed.

If you're not dating anyone during an epidemic, you'll definitely need a support group (or six) to get you through all the bachelorette parties, appalling bridesmaid dresses, and "catch the bouquet" moments. If you are in a serious relationship, as I was that summer, the question of Should we or shouldn't we? may take on a new urgency. The pressure was both external - the sidling friends - and internal. Every time Grant and I trekked off to another idyllic waterfront ceremony, I'd evaluate our relationship in light of the happy pair's. I'd ask myself questions like: Would we ever be able to exchange vows as profound and poetic as Couple No. 3's? Would Grant ever look as happy in his tuxedo as Groom No. 5 did? Would guests say they knew all along we were perfect for each other, as they did at Wedding No. 4? And most important, what did it mean that I couldn't answer any of these questions with an unqualified yes?

I knew that weighing my relationship on an ordinary day against another couple's on their wedding day was a little like comparing tap water to champagne -and then getting angry at the water for not tasting like bubbly. But those surface comparisons soon revealed a harder truth: I couldn't envision a wedding with Grant because I couldn't envision a happy marriage with him. Our goals for the future were simply too different.

So as the leaves turned gold that autumn and the Marriage Epidemic of '04 waned, he and I called it quits. It wasn't easy attending the last wedding of the season solo, but I did feel a little bit relieved. Part of me had known for a while that the relationship wasn't quite right; the wedding outbreak pushed me to recognize, and act upon, that knowledge.

Seeing a close friend make a lifelong commitment can crystallize feelings about one's own partnership. Perhaps that's why weddings do seem to occur in clumps: One couple decides to tie the knot, and others realize they want to do so, too. If you're in the camp that reaches the opposite conclusion, the cluster of festivities will no doubt be painful. But I, for one, am now glad the epidemic happened when it did. Without watching so many friends stand up and take vows, Grant and I might have muddled along for another year or two, probably to the detriment of both of us. So those pals who asked if we were "getting any ideas" did help me make an important step toward the future. It wasn't the step they imagined, but it was, in retrospect, a positive one.

I still go to a lot of weddings, but the days of rushing from Rhode Island to California to Vermont in a single week are, I think, behind me. I'm starting to associate showers with soap and water again. Weddings feel individual and special once more - as I hope mine will one day be. And with only one or two receptions each year, I can finally remember whether I ordered the chicken or the salmon.

Alison Lobron lives in Cambridge. Send comments to magazine@globe.com.