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.