This weekend is my bachelorette party. Tomorrow afternoon, all of my closest girlfriends from across the country will ascend on the Jersey Shore for a weekend of I'm not entirely sure what because they won't tell me but I'm gonna go ahead and guess that tequila will be involved. All I know is that my Man of Honor, Michael, has been planning FOR MONTHS. And I am trying not to squirt in my pants as I write this thinking about how excited I am to see my friends. Woopsies.
Especially considering what happened last time we were all together for what I've heard is supposed to be a proper event, but for us it was all bottles of wine and dancing and beads and falling into the drum kit and maybe a Philadelphia fireman or two.
But this week, every time I tell someone what I'll be doing this weekend, their eyes light up, and they all ask the same question. Not what are we doing, or who will be there, or even where are we going. Everyone wants to know what I'll be wearing. And I'm all ummmm you mean besides the drinks I'll inevitably be spilling all over myself?
And then I thought about all the accessories of the recent bachelorette parties I've witnessed in passing throughout bars in the city, which has only helped me decide what I won't be wearing: wieners, feathers, Miss America sashes, or a tiara.
So I thought about it. For days. Most often when I was supposed to be working. I'd be tapping away on a piece about greening your office space, but what I was really thinking was, Hmm ... green. I wonder if that green shirt is bachelorette party worthy? Because if you haven't figured it out by now, when it comes to this wedding stuff, I pretty much have no idea what I'm doing. Clearly, even dressing myself has become a challenge.
But then yesterday at work, as I was walking through the hallway one of my coworkers stopped me and was all "I LOVE that skirt. What a PERFECT party skirt." And I was all BOOYAH, BABY, DECISION MADE.
Please excuse the dirty mirror. And the weird lighting. And the dizzy angle. I took that on my lunch break, so obviously I was drunk. ANYWAY. I'll be wearing what B refers to as my Drunk Ass Ballerina Skirt. If Drunk Ass Ballerina doesn't scream bachelorette party, then strap a penis hat to my head and meet me at the bar because I owe you a blow job. The drink, assholes.
There is one, slight problem with Drunk Ass Ballerina Skirts though. Every time a good breeze blows, I suddenly become the most popular girl on the block.
But I figure, hey, I spend a significant portion of my time under the influence mooning people anyway, this will just eliminate a step for me. It's called resourcefulness, people. I have it.