Something I learned about myself in the last few years: I’m terrible at bachelorette parties.
I’m too self-conscious, too uptight, and maybe too old (which, incidentally, is the working title of my future autobiography). As a reluctant team player, the girly wolf pack mentality kind of freaks me out, and the “traditional” aspect of bachelorette parties – strippers, tiaras, penis-shaped everything – really makes me cringe. Even when I was The Appropriate Age Range for a hen party (completely made-up by me, somewhere between 21 and 28), I was mortified for the bride as some guy named Randy Andy thrust a satin-clad dong at her face, over and over. Surely this is why Long Island Iced Teas were invented.
Bachelorette parties are still aggressively Pro-Penis; I’ve only been to one where it was all about Lady V, and that bride-to-be was a lesbian. Why do we festoon our besties with the goofiest part of a human man’s body? Are we beating her to death with penis balloons so she’s more likely to stay faithful to the one she’s marrying? Is it weird to celebrate the other man-parts of her beloved like, say, his upper thighs or elbows? How about a crown of feet or a Tootsie Pop shaped like his ear? Why does that seem weirder than a bunch of hairy wangs?
I think my real problem is the formula for bachelorette parties: 1) ATTRACT ATTENTION and 2) ATTRACT MORE ATTENTION. You celebrate your friend by creating a spectacle and making insane memories and being attention whores. Look at our friend, look at us! We are crazy! This is tradition!
Attention, for the most part, is awesome. I love it as much as the next person, probably more. But let’s get real: I like to control it, and that’s impossible with so many x-factors. Bachelorette parties are all about indulging, and making memories that turn into stories that turn into history that turn into legend. No one ever talks about the hen party that started with green tea and ended at nine.
My own bachelorette party – that I planned (why yes, I am that asshole – and while we’re at it, I planned my bridal shower, too! #CONTROL) – was a dick-free blast. The best part was sharing the wonderful un-talents of my favorite drag queen, Dina Martina, with so many girlfriends. After that, it gets fuzzy, as it probably should. Pub crawl. Tater tots. Hair talk. Instagram.
Bachelorette Parties I’ve Survived:
-That one where some drunk girls decided to do an intervention on another really drunk girl. “BITCH, you have a PROBLEM!”
-That one where we ended up at a club during Furry Night, and there were silent, elderly Japanese men standing against the walls, just staring.
-That one where [name redacted, rhymes with “Klaren”] threw up all over the hot new speakeasy bar in town and then we got kicked out.
-That one where the police got called because [super redacted].
-That one where my sister-in-law kept yelling “SEX PARK!” but I don’t know why.
-That one where we left a soldier behind in Canada.
Maybe I’ll get better at this as I get older, or maybe as I get older, people will just host fancy spa days. That I can handle.