After my third glass of champagne, I decide I'm going to dance.

I never thought I'd be single at a wedding again. To be fair, I'm not. I'm still happily married. But Justin had a work thing come up—the kind he can't tell me much about—and now here I am representing us both at this wedding, which is full of mostly his friends.

I feel like the fifth wheel—though there's a lot of people here, so maybe more like the 205th wheel. Anyway, it's awkward and people keep talking to me like they feel like they have to.

We're into the dancing portion of the evening now. The bride and groom did their dance, and it was beautiful. I drank my way through the slow dances that followed. But now things have picked up, and the DJ is spinning the early 2000s nostalgia playlist that comes standard at weddings of people our age—and I'm tired of sitting around by myself, so I'm going to dance.

I kick off my shoes, a pair of white lace pumps that look absolutely adorable and have been making me absolutely miserable all evening. One of the best things about my job is that I don't have to wear heels regularly. Now a couple inches shorter but infinitely more comfortable, I skip out onto the dance floor just as Usher's "Yeah!" starts playing, to the joy of everyone who jammed to it in high school—which I assume is all of us.

I let the music take me away. I don't claim to be a particularly good dancer, but I've never had a problem getting into it. With the music throbbing and the lights flashing and everybody whipping around and having a good time, I'm instantly so much happier.

A few songs later, I need another drink. A little out of breath, I twirl off the dance floor and head over to the open bar to get in line behind the other folks who had the same idea.