Watching a pack of females interact is like watching Animal
Planet, add a couple feather boas, some inappropriate drinking straws and an
impending wedding and it’s like watching the love child of Animal Planet and
Toddlers and Tiaras….if that love child was 7 bottles into some purple drank
and a had a bad case of the crack shakes.
Referred throughout the ages as doe parties, hen parties,
and now more commonly as a bachelorette party, these rites of passage have long
baffled the male population and caused many a flurry amongst the women that
frequent them.
I’ve been on both sides of this shindig, both enjoying the
celebration of my beautiful friend’s weddings…and judging the snot out of every
bachelorette party I see on the street. ‘Oh hey, nice sashes ladies. Judging by
the self-proclaimed “Sexy Beast” that’s on yours, girl, I’m going to go out on
a limb here and say you’re a vodka cranberry sort of girl. No? Oh, vodka Red
Bull…sugar free of course, because that’s makes Zumba a bit easier Monday
morning.’
And once again, I prove that hypocrisy is alive and well in
my life. (Not that I drink Vodka…c’mon I have a palette, but I’m still known as
‘Miss Sassy Pants’ in 3 counties)
At stop #3, I had the distinct pleasure of warding off
Beard-y McDump Face (see previous posts for nomenclature explanation). Yo, Dump
Face, wipe your mouth because last night’s Totino’s is in a Stage 5 clinger
sitch in the worst sort of way.
Moving on…
So Dump Face, in all of his wisdom, most graciously explains
to me the wisdom he has gained from hanging out with ‘like 70 or 80’
bachelorette parties. (70 or 80? #popular).
“You’re that girl I hate. There’s always a fat chick or a
big sister keeping me from putting the moves on the drunk chick.”
Excuse me, Dump Face, are you calling me fat or old? I got
distracted by the spittle on your lip. Maybe what’s keeping you from laying on
your moves like Jagger is the faint (read: overwhelming) scent of day old Gin
wafting about your person. Do you live with some 99%ers….or did you take a
sponge back with some McCormick’s this morning?
Seeing as how I am about 3 bridesmaids gigs away from
creating my own rom-com, I’ve had many a run-in with the bachelorette bashers.
A motley crew they are, ranging from old dudes on business trips looking to
feel young again, or wannabe cowboys that think slithering their snake skin
boot up my leg will lead to a number….instead it simply leads to verbal
whiplash, and if we are lucky a shank in the liver.
There is something about bachelorette parties that brings
out the competition in me. There’s nothing like a little domination on a Friday
evening (or Tuesday at noon for that matter, I love me some victory). The
problem is….#winning at a bachelorette party puts you somewhere on Charlie
Sheen’s level.
In the proverbial good vs evil battle constantly waging war
inside my head, I find myself battling whether success is filling pages in my
unused little black book, or swallowing my pride, while maintaining my dignity.
Do I want an aresenal of numbers that will never be called, names that will
never be remembered, and stories that can never be told to my children? No. But
do I want to crush every female around me, thus establishing my dominance.
Look, I know the right answer is ‘no’ here, but let’s face it….typing it would
be as big of a lie as saying that I didn’t eat three cheeseburgers last week.
Spoiler Alert: I did.
Luckily, bachelorette bashers are never of the bring home to
mom variety, and tend to have the fashion sense of Jersey Shore, so taming my
terrible tendency to compare, analyze and pick apart every person in my
presence proves easier than if we were at a lumberjack convention filled with
bearded tall men of the Jesus-loving persuasion. Regardless, each
adventure-laden weekend reminds me more and more that I am a creature of the
flesh and need the grace of God more than ever before….or to be punched in the
face by someone bigger than me. My thoughts more than deserve it.
