“Oh no!” My boyfriend started moaning. “This is not going to be a classy affair! Do I have to go?”
“He’s one of your best friends,” I shrugged. “It would hurt his feelings if you bailed.”
“But it’s going to be awwwwwwwful!”
And that’s how I found myself in the rather odd position of a woman who has less of a problem with her guy going to a bachelor party than he does.Nothing about this bachelor party upsets me. Really, the idea of “bachelor party” in our popular culture has me rolling my eyes because it’s so tawdry, so gross. “Strip club” brings to mind seedy stuff like Heather Graham in “The Hangover” or
The only way he would enjoy strippers, he told me, is if they were “classy” like the prostitute Belle on “Secret Diary of a Call Girl.” This sounds like his type — natural body, low-key makeup, pretty lingerie — you know, someone who dresses like me. So why should I be angry with or offended by double-D boobs, g-strings, fake nails, and lots of makeup? I feel bad for him that he has to sit through the whole thing.
No, what really has me concerned about this bachelor party-palooza is the booze. My boyfriend is actually allergic to alcohol, so blood alcohol poisoning isn’t on my list of worries. But I am nervous about what stupid things his pals will do while they’re three sheets to the wind. Will they sedately lie there while a stripper grinds against their Levi’s, perhaps? Or pick a fight with 12 guys who are twice their size? Cozy up to video games in the bar? Or, since he’ll likely be the designated driver up in snowy Montreal, what if he gets distracted by their drunken buffoonery while carting their soused asses home?
For a loving, doting girlfriend, there are all kinds of things that can go wrong at a bachelor party — that’s what the entire movie “The Hangover” is based on. But let’s have a little perspective here: Nobody ever died from a stripper-related accident.