The Bachelorette

Back in those first five or so years post-college, I went to a LOT of bachelorette parties. I wore red feather boas. I drank fruity intoxicants out of pink penis straws. I danced on bars and took pictures of my friends doing things like this:


Those days are mostly over.

Lately, you're more like to find me showering a mom-to-be, serving up diaper cakes and sampling strained peas on a Saturday afternoon. Or counseling a friend over the phone on the best way to tell her rat of an ex-husband she's remarrying and wants full custody of the kids.

And so it comes as a refreshing surprise that now, nearly ten years after my own nuptials, my fabulous, glamorous single friend (who I'll call "Kim," because that is her name, though I want you to picture an Asian Carrie Bradshaw) has finally deemed a member of the male species worthy of her hand. Worthy of her heart. Worthy, even, of a little space in her closet. Which is how you know it's love.

(It probably didn't hurt that he's a hot, young male nurse.)

And so, to usher out Kim's final days as a Windy City single, I'm headed to Chicago for what will be my first bachelorette party in, well, YEARS. Tellingly, the things I'm most concerned about are:

1. Will my LBD mask the post-baby muffin top and make me look sufficiently hot in dim lighting?
2. Will I be able to stay up past midnight?
3. What, exactly, will I be expected to do to a pickle at
   G Boutique?

What can I say? I may not have the body, the stamina or the sheer senseless bravery that I had in my twenties. But on the other hand?

I'll have MUCH better shoes.