Every time I go to grab a bottle of water (read: wine) from the giant save-the-date holder that used to be my refrigerator, I’m reminded that with the summer weather comes wedding season, and with wedding season comes bachelorette party season. You know, the group of ladies you see at the bar/casino/hotel/pool, dressed in some kind of coordinating ensembles: maybe matching printed shirts or the classic everyone-but-the-bride-in-black look and of course, the bride definitely has a sash that says “bride” in glitter. But as
drunk carefree as they may look, it took them quite a bit of planning to get there.
It all begins with the group email sent from a maid of honor to an assorted group of childhood friends, sorority sisters, work buddies, and random cousins that the bride doesn’t like, but her mother insists that she include because “it’s not worth hurting anyone’s feelings over.” The bride has provided some dates that work for her, which of course all correlate to the most expensive travel weekends of the summer. Memorial Day? Sure. Fourth of July? No problem. Labor Day? Absolutely. My birthday weekend? Oh hell no – it’s bad enough that she made me spend three hundred bucks on a bridesmaid’s dress that, despite her promises, I will 100 percent never wear again, but bitch ain’t taking my birthday weekend from me. That’s sacred.
But given that I’m the singleton with no kids, I suck it up and send the obligatory “Whatever works for everyone is fine with me!” response, since clearly I’ve got no life. A thousand “I need to see if I can get Friday off!” “Let me check with (insert boyfriend’s name here) to make sure we don’t have plans that weekend!” and “Checking with the in-laws to see if they can watch the baby!” emails later, finally the date is set. We’ve reached mile one in Bachelorette Party Half Marathon.
Whenever I tell my mother I have yet another bachelorette party to attend, she waxes poetic about how back in the day a bachelorette party was exactly that – a party. It was a one-night extravaganza that maybe included a dinner and a drunken night out at a bar or two, capped off by waking up with a nasty hangover that next day. But at some point, what was a one-night event evolved into a weekend-long destination vacation with a minimum recovery time of two days. Speaking of, the location suggestions have started flooding my inbox.
The bride doesn’t want anything “too crazy,” so someone proposes the oh-so-original idea of a spa vacay. Oh, great, so now on top of the flight and the hotel room, I have to pay for a mani and pedi that will cost twice as much and last half as long as the one I’ll get from my regular Vietnamese nail lady. Also, I just checked out the hotel restaurant menu and they only serve kale and beets. WTF? Don’t they know I need some carbs to soak up the bottle of vodka I’m going to sneak into this wellness hell-hole? Nevermind that there’s not a guy in sight and about 75 percent of the reason I even agree to attend bachelorette parties is the free pass to get completely wasted and hit on dudes that are so far out of my league we don’t even play in the same ballparks. Sorry, ladies, I’m going to have to exercise my veto here. Next.
After the winter from hell, the idea of spending a weekend of days in the sun with my feet in the sand and a margarita in my hand and nights at an outdoor bar shaking my ass and knocking back shots is majorly appealing. Of course, I’d rather be doing all that without the bride’s judgmental older cousin Susan rolling her eyes at my asking the hot guy on the next blanket to put some lotion on my back or the slightly off-key rendition of Britney’s “Oops, I Did It Again” I will most definitely give from the top of the bar, but this has definite possibilities.
Someone suggests the way-too-overdone Vegas idea and someone counters with New York instead. Now, this is an idea I can get behind. The city that never sleeps offers everything Vegas does – shopping, shows, bars that stay open way past the point I should stop drinking – without the gambling aspect, which means there’s less chance of my losing the equivalent of a month’s rent by making an inebriated bet on black. I’ll probably have to barter my first-born to be able to afford two nights in a New York hotel that doesn’t involve sharing the room with roaches or sleeping four to a bed, but that’s cool – I don’t really want kids right now anyway.
The only person poorer than me in this whole scenario is the bride’s coworker Jessica. Her Ivy League student loans don’t exactly match up with her entry level paycheck, so she throws the idea of a “staycation” into the mix. We can all drive up to her parents’ house in the mountains, swim and tan by the lake, head to the bar in town at night, and have a nice weekend for short money. Good deal, right? Until the bride chimes in that she loves the idea because then she can bring the supplies for us to work on “all of the crafts she found on Pinterest for the wedding!” Yes, because I totally want to spend a weekend in the woods burning myself with a glue gun trying to make cork place card holders while fighting off mosquitos. Although, I suppose that if this is going only going to cost me gas and bar money, I can compromise – provided that someone is packing a giant bottle of Fireball that they’re willing to share.
I don’t know about the rest of these ladies, but I’m super excited (read: moderately enthused) for this ah-mazing weekend. Of course, 72 hours of carrying around light-up penises and holding back the bride’s hair while she pukes up moderately priced champagne isn’t the responsible way to spend my weekend when I’ve got about eleven assignments for graduate school due, but screw it. The peeps who follow my social media had better prepare themselves. I am gonna Instagram the shit out of this because A) It’s a miracle that I’m off the couch and not watching Netflix for an entire 72 hours, and B) Let’s be honest, no matter where we wind up, I’m not going to remember any of this disastrous weekend anyway. Ready? Let’s go, bitches. It’s time to get this shitshow on the road..
Image via Shutterstock