Let it be known that I am searching for that special someone: that person who is unafraid to don his best party clothes on Friday and Saturday nights, who is polite and charming, who can dance the night away and who will join me in facing the evils that lurk on the Metro past 11 p.m.

Yes, it is true — I am searching for my plus one.

And by plus one, I don’t mean a boyfriend or soul mate. Rather, I mean someone who will go to parties and events across the city with me for the sheer reason that going alone seriously sucks.

And by seriously sucks, I mean forced-to-fend-off-creepers-every-which-way seriously sucks.

Who would’ve ever guessed that flying solo at a party for the sake of diligently completing one’s job simultaneously creates a target on your back? (Okay, maybe some people would realize sooner than I did.)

Needless to say, after approximately five months as a scene reporter, I realized that I needed a party partner, my very own go-to plus one, someone to save me from the horrors of unwanted and awkward conversations.

I began soliciting my friends to join me: “I promise it’ll be a good time. You should see the people that go to these events!” Nothing. Apparently, the desire to stay on campus on a Friday or Saturday night was just too compelling.

So, I pulled out the big guns: “There will be an open bar?”

Bingo.

My first victim — ahem, plus one — was my friend Mark. We were due to attend the League of Something or Another’s annual ball in Chinatown and the first problem we faced was deciphering the invitation’s dress code: cocktail attire for females (easy) and “creative black tie” for males.

We were perplexed:  What does “creative black tie” even mean? Is it black tie or not? Would he be shunned if he wore, God forbid, a navy blue suit? Should he rent a tux?

After extensive Google research, we decided he probably wouldn’t be a total outcast if he wore a navy blue suit (It also happened to be the only suit he had dry cleaned at the time, so we had no other option).

To our relief, we were right. Upon arrival at the event, we found men wearing everything under the sun, from tweed blazers (Since when is that still a thing?) to penguin-esque tail coats. Mark turned out just fine, even going so far as to ditch me halfway through the event to converse with a married woman (and her husband) who had taken a bit too much of a liking to him. So much for my supportive plus one!

Round two came when my friend Dylan came to a gala in May. While the attire dilemma was a non-issue, I couldn’t have chosen a more boring event to bring a friend to: With speech after speech after speech, all that really stood out was the food, which we devoured. (They certainly don’t serve filet mignon and risotto at Leo’s.) We were just about ready to make our escape when the lights dimmed and a not-quite-famous-but-have-still-sold-a-couple-records band took the stage. We were stuck.

It was excruciating. Dylan and I sat there staring at each other for fear that if we broke concentration, we would burst out in laughter (or tears) over the worst rendition of “You Raise Me Up” the two of us had ever heard. I am sure that somewhere, Josh Groban was suffering piercing heart pains.

Dylan’s consolation prize for being a good sport and suffering through torture was the table’s centerpiece, which had Mother’s Day gift written all over it.

I, on the other hand, discovered the meaning of a perfect plus one: someone who will attend the best and the worst events with me in good humor and someone who will reassure me that, indeed, the band is awful, despite the fact that everyone else in the room is smiling politely and gently swaying to the music.

Think you have what it takes to be my plus one? Applications are accepted on a rolling basis.

Merjan Bubernack is a junior in the McDonough School of Business. PSUEDO-SOCIALITE appears online every other week in The Guide.