It’s happened to all of us. You open your email and there it is: The Partiful/Paperless Post. A SPECIAL INVITATION JUST FOR YOU! The envelope opens elegantly before your eyes to reveal (confetti, confetti) You’re invited! To so and so’s bachelorette party in New Orleans! You scroll to the bottom to see the other invitees; 13 other women you never knew existed. A bonus: P.S. It would mean so much to the bride to have you there! Your heart beats faster, your palms are sweaty; and the panic sets in. Can I even afford this? The hotel? The matching outfits? Who are all these other women I’ve never even heard of? What if they’re nuts? There are too many variables, too many potential breakdowns, and likely way too many dietary restrictions. Which begs the question: Am I a bad friend if I don’t go to my friend’s bachelorette party?
Maybe I’m jaded and have participated in one too many BPs, or I’m old and grouchy, or all of the above. I’m immediately overwhelmed by the flurry of daily emails leading up to the trip and I’m honestly tempted run into oncoming traffic. The reply-alls (I only drink bottled water), the travel confirmations (my flight is getting in five minutes earlier than I thought!). None of which are being sent by the B-R-I-D-E so why am I irritated with her? Does she know that I’m bending over backwards and being subjected to information that has nothing to do with me?! She knows I hate that.
I should be angry with what a BP has turned into: an ordeal. An unpredictable game of duck, duck (grey) goose. The specific outfit requirements that include a themed t-shirt for a bottomless mimosa brunch that will never be worn again (#bridesquad), fringe crop-tops that everyone has order from this site because we want everyone to match whether you’re comfortable with it or not, and your sash that must be worn at all times – also no white and no sneakers. Then there’s the exorbitant costs: the party bus for two days, plus the extra $75 to make it an open bar for the 5 minute ride from the hotel to Bourbon Street. The dinners, the drinks.. the advil. You might as well risk your life robbing a bank, taking all that cash, and flushing it down the toilet – because you’re never going to see it again.
Then I remember, it’s not about me. It’s about my girlfriend and she’s getting married. Shoutout to my therapist for that gem. I remember our movie nights in college and those scores at Goodwill. I remember when she met her soon-to-be-spouse! I was outside, at the same party! As I look at flights, I feel the inspirational music rise and think to myself You know what? I might be the only one who has experience holding her hair back while she’s vomiting in the street. I’ll help wipe the Dior mascara stains from her face, give her a pep talk about her nuptials, and fix her tiara even if we have to sit on a street curb for 45 minutes. I click ‘book it’. I’ll remind myself of this moment when I end up sharing my hotel room with an overenthusiastic woman who got invited last minute and smiles in her sleep.
Will any of you actually remember this trip in the haze of a three day hangover and having significantly less money than you did than before the trip? Barely. But the Insta photos look great.
