If you are a female in your mid to late 20s and are a relatively social
creature, you have undoubtedly been invited to a bachelorette party
this year.
During this unavoidable rite-of-passage, a group of smart and interesting ladies will douse themselves in body glitter, throw on pink plumed feather boas and transform into a screeching gaggle of drunkards.
A couple of weeks ago, I was invited to such an evening to celebrate the nuptials of a friend of a friend. I reluctantly agreed.
In my experience, almost every bachelorette party (including the one I attended that night) goes a little something like this: Gather a group of 15 of your closest (willing) girlfriends, pile into a stretch Hummer limousine and cruise through the downtown while screaming “woohoo” out of the sunroof en route to your nightclub of choice.
The bride-to-be inevitably selects a typically trendy venue for her sayonara to singlehood where her eager friends will endure a long lineup and an outrageous cover charge all in the name of friendship. Once drinks are in hand, the bridal party will sashay to the dance floor where they are immediately surrounded by cologne-soaked predators who encircle their prey, instinctively drawn to the glittering gems on their bedazzled tank tops.
After midnight, the bride passes off her stilettos to an inebriated bridesmaid and climbs barefoot atop a nearby table. She begins to belt out a sloppy rendition of Pour Some Sugar on Me before clumsily falling down and being escorted out of the bar by her entourage for a late-night slice of pizza.
In case you were wondering, bachelorette parties in the suburbs are not that much better.
Last year, I hosted a bachelorette-themed girl’s night in honour of a newly married friend. I served the requisite fruity martinis with novelty penis straws, baked phallic-shaped pastries for party guests to nibble on suggestively and even designed customized bachelorette drinking games.
Later on in the evening, I cringed while watching a partially nude 30-something man with a questionable spray-tan gyrate around my parent’s living room (sorry Mom — I swear he didn’t touch the furniture) while my girlfriends emitted high-pitched screams of laughter. I’m not sure what I was expecting when we ordered an exotic male dancer from a company that referred to its entertainment as “klassy,” but after his hour-long sexy-officer-of-the-law routine, I vowed never to host such a party again.
