Last Friday, I decided to take myself on a date. None of my girlfriends were free, but it was First Friday downtown, and I had the impulse to go out. That impulse has been so rare since I lost my husband last September, I felt like I should jump on it.

I hate to waste a good impulse.

First Friday seemed like a perfect time to try this experiment in self-dating. There would be people milling around. Things going on. Music to lighten the vibe. Places to pop in and out of. Possibly even free wine in some of them. And with an office on Bay Street, I could always retreat if it became too much.

Would it be weird? Yes, it would be weird. But I decided to do it anyway. I was in a good mood and it was gorgeous outside. We’d not yet hit the insufferable season – but it was coming. I knew next month’s First Friday wouldn’t be quite as pleasant. I decided to gather my rosebuds, carpe my diem, and all that jazz.

So I did it. I hit downtown Beaufort solo. As I said, it was an experiment, and the results were decidedly mixed.

I got there early, for parking’s sake. Checked the mail at the office. Sat at my desk for a few minutes, mustering my courage, then headed back outside. I strolled up and down Bay Street, circled around into Waterfront Park, then came back up the other side and strolled some more. I did this three times. It got less fun every time. There were people – though not a large crowd yet – but I didn’t see a soul I recognized. And worse than that, nobody seemed to see me at all. Nobody smiled or even returned my glance. Not a single “hey” from a single mouth did I elicit. I felt like a ghost.

Maybe it’s true what they say about “women of a certain age.” Maybe we really are invisible. I have steadfastly rejected that hypothesis over the years, but here I was, faced with what seemed like hard evidence. My bright floral sundress might as well have been Harry Potter’s Cloak of Invisibility as people walked by and looked right through me.

People of all ages, mind you. The young, the old, and everybody in between. In my newly transparent, ghostly state, I was able to observe them without being observed back. And one thing I observed was that everybody had somebody. Or several somebodies. There were no other women – or men for that matter – making loops around downtown Beaufort alone. Unless, of course, they were invisible, like me. How would I know?

My rosebud-gathering gumption began to wane.

In an effort to prove my corporeal existence, I ducked into a favorite restaurant – Hearth – and cozied up to the bar. The bartender acknowledged my presence. Whew! I wasn’t see-through, after all. But I didn’t feel entirely solid, either… or entirely comfortable. I texted my daughter in Columbia and said, “First Friday was a bust. I’m at Hearth, sitting alone at the bar. Yes, I’m one of THOSE women now.” She sent me a laughy emoji and words of support.

Across the bar sat two other women who looked about my age. They hadn’t come in together – and there was a barstool between them – but I had watched them connect, and now they were engaged in animated conversation. I looked on, wistfully, wishing I could will myself onto that empty barstool.

Instead, I sat there scrolling on my phone, as if, perhaps, I were texting a friend – or maybe a date, who was just parking our car – instead of checking my Facebook notices like some sad, socially-challenged, House Chardonnay-sipping… widow.

I hate that word, widow. And it’s certainly not the sum total of who I am. This I know in my lucid moments. But at that particular moment, I felt like I had a big W painted on my increasingly furrowed forehead. I kinda missed being invisible.

Fortunately, my personal pity party didn’t last long. A lovely couple I’d never met sat down beside me, and before I knew it, we were sharing stories, laughter, contact information… and even a pizza. (Their treat!) They were absolutely delightful, and by the time I headed home to Pigeon Point, I had new friends and a much-improved attitude. I could do this!

Saturday, I decided to try it again by driving over to Port Royal for Street Music on Paris Avenue. This time, I was meeting friends, so it wasn’t quite as risky a venture. Still, they were mostly couples, and I was going alone. One folding chair. One bag of pretzels for the table. One Evans.

I ended up sitting with an old friend of Jeff’s – somebody he knew through work and always adored. She’s been a widow for a long time and knows the ropes. She shared some great wisdom and advice about “the life”… but even more important, she raved about her recent adventures on the Cypress Wetlands Trail.

I’ve written a lot about that trail over the years. It was my happy place for a very long time. When my daughter was in school on Lady’s Island, I’d drop her off, drive over the McTeer Bridge to the Y, do some exercising, then head out back to walk the trail.

But my daughter grew up, I stopped going to the Y during Covid, and now I do most of my walking in my own neighborhood. It had been a long time since I’d visited the Cypress Wetlands.

Monday morning, I decided to it had been too long, and I drove myself back to Port Royal. The trail had changed since my last visit. It seemed somehow better tended – more “put together” –  while also more wild and lush. And there were way more birds in the rookery. It was just teeming with them, their joyful noise drowning out even the sounds of construction on the street. My heart soared and my eyes filled with tears. Why had I stayed away so long?

I saw babies fluffing and twitching beneath mama’s watchful eye, stretching their tiny necks and flexing their hopeful beaks. I watched a blue heron fly back and forth across the boardwalk, picking up pieces of grass, straw, and twig, delivering them to his lady who was building a nest. Back and forth he went, gathering one strand at a time in his beak. Back and forth, back and forth. I wondered how long it would take them to finish their DIY project. The herons didn’t seem tired or bored. They were all in.

As I watched, a little white bird – a young egret, I think?  – tiptoed close to the water, and an alligator suddenly surfaced, scooping the bird into its mouth. I was startled – horrified, actually – but the circle of life is like that. One minute, you’re busy feathering your nest with the missus; the next minute, a gator’s chomping on your head.

The last time I was in the Cypress Wetlands, my daughter was still at home, my husband was still alive, and AI had not yet started writing essays better than this one in five seconds flat.

The trail is always in flux – season to season, year after year – and you never know when an alligator will rise from the deep, changing things forever. Sometimes it’s downright brutal, but that’s part of what makes it so beautiful.

 

June is Trails Month in the state of South Carolina. For more on the Cypress Wetlands & Rookery, visit https://friendsofportroyalcypresswetlands.org/