It’s not that I hate female bonding, but bachelorettes stress my shit out. Penis straws aside, getting anywhere from six to twelve women in their twenties to agree on ANYTHING is in defiance of nature. However, months before the event, the email chains start with polite references to a low key night. Well, no one agrees on a concrete plan and a veritable massacre happens via exclamation points and ellipses. And that’s just in the email titles. Never mind what the bride wants, she has nothing to do with it.
I’m curious as to what exactly the legalization of gay marriage will do to the pre-wedding industry. I want a vagina straw, dammit. And I do not think I am alone. Instead of limos, will lesbians rent stretch hatchback Subarus to traipse about the “trendy” part of town in a pair of bachelorette timberlands instead of a tiara?
The tradition of getting belligerently drunk with your friends from high school can be fun, especially because women never hold grudges for years that seep up to the surface after a few buttery nipple shots. Oh, wait. Interestingly enough, I think I just went to the best bachelorette of my life thus far; the bride was so relaxed, docile even. I think one of the bridesmaids must have given her a joint because she was so chill.
We started the night in a cramped hotel room and nine women tried to get ready for the night’s festivities with one bathroom mirror. ONE. Broken nail polish bottles, foundation powder all over and broken eyeshadow palettes littered the floor. I completed the mosaic by spilling my spearmint Altoids that look remarkably like a party drug (small and square and blue). All we needed was a corpse in the background and we had a morning after scene from Law and Order: LA. The night seemed perfect, a sketchy Mexican restaurant, a lesbian dance club, and a few bro bars to complete our “bachelorette scavenger hunt”. How many dicks did you see last weekend? I bet I saw more.
No night out in our hometown, or yours, is complete without running into a few people that you do not want to see, or you have fucked. Or both. It was my night for a hat trick, and by the time we crawled to get chicken finger subs at the local pizza joint and I stumbled into a double bed with two women in whom I was not sexually interested at all, I would have been happy never leaving bed again.
But the past is the past; for some reason, we celebrate the past on the way into the future. Celebrate the drunken single nights we relied on our friends, or worse, ditched them for sex. We celebrate being done with lonely nights with pints of Phish food where DVDs of Queer as Folk Season 1 are our only companions.
I enjoyed reveling in my past life, but going back would be hell. Besides, somewhere between “Pin the Cock on the Jock” and phallic shaped blue jello shots (so many jokes about blue balls), I rediscovered my best friends.