January to March is wedding promo season. No one actually gets married unless you’re having a destination wedding and trying not to pay for your cousin and his/her spouse’s plates. But look to social media for reposts of engagement photos (“#ThrowbackThursday to the time we paid a stranger to photograph us in a backyard we don’t own”), bridesmaid acceptances (“of course I’ll drop a grand on a dress and a bachelorette weekend since we sat together in high school chemistry”), and save-the-dates (“I could just send out the actual invitations, but instead let’s keep the postmen employed”).

The last point is what brings me to today’s narrative. A friend who I haven’t seen since college (so three years ago—actually maybe we saw each other at homecoming two years ago?) is getting married. This week she sent out her save-the-dates. I didn’t get one.

Of course, it’s only day two. Maybe it’s still in transit somewhere between Michigan and Virginia. But I’m beginning to accept that Instagram likes and friendship via bonding over our inability to play beer pong six years ago does not ensure a ticket to an open bar (that’s what nuptials are if you were wondering).