With trepidation, the Independent’s schoolteacher/ diarist goes to a bachelorette party.
Nov. 21, 2005
Foreword: This entry might not seem meaningful to a lot of people out there. But this weekend was a big weekend for me, one that helped me overcome some insecurities and feel really happy. Some may think it’s trivial. I don’t.
Dennis’s sister Jenn is getting married in February. I was invited to her bachelorette party and bridal shower, which took place this past Saturday; it was the first bachelorette party I’d ever attended. I knew what to expect, mostly from hearing about bachelorette parties from other girlfriends and from watching television: lots of women (confirmed), lots of drinking (definitely confirmed) and probably some plastic male genitalia worn around the neck or tossed into the air (also confirmed). Since Jenn lives in Queens and grew up in Woodbridge, I also expected not to know a single other person besides her. That was what made me most hesitant about going. I’m not very good at making friends with girls.
I’ve always been that way: my best friends have always been guys, my colleagues at work consider me “one of the guys,” and I’ve had some terrible experiences living with girl roommates. This is probably due to the fact that I’m an only child. (Technically, I’m not, but I grew up without my half-siblings, so I was on my own my whole life.) I was never very good at sharing my things or my space; nor did I ever really talk very much about girly things like my few girlfriends who grew up with sisters — “or with brothers they couldn’t stand. I’m not exactly a tomboy, like my mom was when she was little; but I am awkward when it comes to being comfortable around other women my age.
When I was a few years into college, my mom noticed that I was lacking girlfriends. She has tons of girlfriends and she has a pretty fulfilling life because of them, or so she claims. She bought me a book called “Girlfriends” because she thought I needed to read about how important girlfriends are. I think I read the first couple of pages; now it sits on my shelf at home in Vermont. Not really a gripping read.
I’ve always been a little jealous, though, of my friends who had really tight relationships with other girls. Kristie, probably my oldest friend in the world, always had really close relationships with girls and I was always in awe. She knew how to share her space; she wouldn’t get mad when one of her friends would wake her up in the middle of the night drunk; she’d actually wait up for her friends to make sure they came home at night. I never understood that kind of friendship.
Not that I was incapable of it. I had really close girlfriends when I was able to stay in one place for longer than six months. But because of the nature of my college years, I moved around all the time: Boston, Mississippi, Vermont, the Corwith Cramer, Woods Hole, Narragansett, Providence, now New Haven — ¬¶all over the place. Now my friends are scattered around the country; it’s been years since I’ve been able to spend any time with them at all. I began to think that there was something wrong with me. Why couldn’t I have the close friendships my other friends seemed to have?
When I started working at the restaurant, I ended up working with a girl whom I’d actually graduated from high school with, Allison. Allison is the kind of girl who has really close girlfriends, and she introduced me to one of them: Norah. Norah is one of the coolest girls I’ve ever met and she was probably my first girlfriend here in New Haven. Before she started school last winter, we went out every Monday night for drinks and talking. Then summer hit and we lost touch a little. Last week we went out and I was thankful to see her again, to talk about school and work and Dennis and Chris. I’ve been so wrapped up in school this year. I know that’s not an excuse.
Needless to say, I was nervous going to the bridal shower on Saturday. There were close to 60 people there at Caff√© Bottega on Temple Street. I knew Jenn, her mom, her aunt, and Dennis (who happens to be Jenn’s maid of honor and who was there for a few minutes to set up a television for the party). Besides the fact that I’m a painfully shy person, I was nervous about being the girl who stood by the food table and smiled. I was also nervous about being the girl who got really drunk really fast off mimosas because she was nervous about not knowing anyone. (This fear came from the best piece of advice I’ve ever received. An ex-boyfriend’s mother once told me that whenever you feel nervous at a party, just be sure to have a drink in your hand. It’s a distraction, it’s calming — ¬¶and it’s often an alcoholic drink, which would then lead to me to be the girl to drink too much too soon.) But Jenn quickly introduced me to several of her friends who took it upon themselves to introduce me to other people. I was thankful and amazed they were so kind, but I really didn’t want them to feel as if they needed to look out for me.
But I soon felt right at home. Jenn has awesome friends. I was planning on going home just to take a quick nap before the bachelorette party, but instead I stuck around to help load presents into the car and to walk to a nearby store to peruse the shoes with Lauren and Vicky, two of Jenn’s friends. We went to my house so I could change clothes and then went to Jenn’s parents’ house to hang out.
While the three of us were at my house, the girls asked me what I was going to wear, and I took out the outfit I’d planned. They quickly vetoed my initial decision and instead pointed me toward a shirt that would coordinate with the shoes I’d just bought. “No,” Vicky said. “I was going to say, —ÀúGo with the white top,’ but now that I see the green, forget it. The green. Plus it matches your jacket.”
Can I tell you how long it’s been since a girl has helped me pick out an outfit? I’ve lived either on my own or with a boyfriend for the past three years; girls haven’t helped me pick out an outfit in years. Vicky pointed out that the buttons on the jacket matched the gold on the shoes. Would I ever have noticed that?
I was kind of in awe for a moment. This is what girls do, I thought to myself. Dennis — “or any guy for that matter — “would never point something like that out to me. Guys would never help me coordinate shoes with jacket. “You look great,” is what guys say. “No, really. You look great.”
At BAR, where the bachelorette party was, out came the plastic male genitalia, as well as a check list of ridiculous things you have to do at bachelorette parties: wear your bra on the outside of your shirt (check); say “Hi, Sexy” to ten different people (check); get a piggy-back ride from a stranger (check) — “double points for the “stranger” being the bartender (check check); ask a guy to marry you (check); get a guy’s phone number (check); the list goes on. We (or maybe just I) quickly turned the checklist into a competition, and I took on the challenge with pride and vigor. I also spent a good deal of time text-messaging Dennis and his friend. At one point, I just text messaged both of them my name: “Gina.” Why? I have no idea. But it was a hell of a night. The truth is, for the first time in a long time, I felt happy. I felt giddy and silly, all the things a girl should feel when she’s out with other girls. I wasn’t shy. I wasn’t insecure. I didn’t care about guys. I didn’t care about having intellectual conversations. I was having fun. I felt like “one of the girls.”
At some point just after midnight or one, I cheered myself out of the building with Dennis and my friends from the restaurant to head over to another bar. I hugged the girls I’d gotten to know (Vicky, Elise, Blanche, Lauren) and said goodbye to Jenn.
Apparently, I had “won” the competition that night. I also won a hangover, but I guess that goes along with the territory.