Written by Natasha Lawrence

When I was naive and in my teens, my favourite part of Bridget Jones’s Diary was when she was the only single person at her friend’s dinner party. I laughed and thought “How tragic!”. But now, nearly over a decade (yes, a decade) later, I find myself in my own Bridget Jones hell. One that doesn’t have the promise of two handsome British men fighting over me.

You see, I only realized a couple months ago, while sitting around a dinner table celebrating my friend’s birthday, that this friend groups’ dinner parties always consisted of the same people. And, taking a look around, it dawned on me that everyone at the table was part of a couple. Everyone, except your’s truly.

How is this possible? How have I become a Bridget? And why did Helen Fielding make Bridget’s life seem so miserable?!

This past Canadian Thanksgiving, as I heaped my plate with too much stuffing, while indulging in maybe too much wine, I fielded questions from aunts and family friends about why I was still single. In fact, my grandmother cried because I am “such a nice girl” and it hurts her to see me not settled. Ok, maybe I wasn’t drinking enough wine. But the whole scene terribly reminded me of Bridge’s mom’s Turkey Curry Buffet, minus the ‘funny’ uncle and well..Colin Firth.

The next day, chowing down on a leftover turkey sandwich back in the comfort of my own apartment, whilst in my underwear no less, I began to reflect on my new realization. Yes, I’m in my late twenties and single. Yes, I’m the only singleton in certain friend groups. And yes, everyone around me seems to be getting married and having kids. But gosh dammit, I love it. When I was in my late teens, I made a promise to myself that my 20s would be my selfish years. My years to focus on me, build my empire and not answer to anyone. And, now in my late 20s, I’ve done just that, and I’ve loved every minute of it. I love going on awkward first dates. I love random hook-ups with questionable characters. And I love worrying more about my next Uber Eats meal more than worrying about cooking for a husband or boyfriend. It’s fabulous.

Placing my empty sandwich plate on the floor, I turned the record player full blast (sorry neighbours) and belted out Celine Dion’s All By Myself while dancing around my apartment. I was all by myself indeed, but in that came a total wave of freedom.

So maybe, I am a Bridget. I embrace it.