Bound

Sometimes when I’m sitting at my desk on a random Wednesday, I’m mentally at a rooftop bar in San Diego, teaching a bouncer how to Dougie. In other words, at my bachelorette party.

You know how everyone says that weddings bring out the crazy in people? That’s definitely true, but they also bring out the awesome. When you’re the one getting married, you’re so involved in the crazy-making “white-hydrangeas-versus-pink-wait-what-about-the-roses” debate that you can forget how much work everyone else puts into celebrating your union. These girls made me feel so loved, I considered just marrying all of them, too.

After a Chipotle fuel-stop on the drive down, we spent Friday night at the Ivy, and it was essentially perfect: I’m basing that on the fact that no one paid for a single drink, and all I remember of the night is a whirling-dervish blur. There’s a high that comes from having all your favorite women on one dance floor, someone shouting, “You’re getting married!!” over the thumping bass, and the whole crew screaming, “Ahhhh!!” as they booty-bump, as if this is a new revelation every time. Palpable love, man.

Apparently the friend-force was strong with us that night, since we ended up acquiring some new homies along the way . . . two random guys  who decided they were part of Bachelorette Night. They threw their pocketbooks in the circle and just danced with us for a while, walked us back to the hotel, and (despite our protests) bought us pizza along the way. (I mean, we didn’t really protest that hard. Doing the Running Man for like four hours burns a lot of calories). They were incredibly nice, of course, but . . . what did they think was going to happen there? Some sort of separate-one-gazelle-from-the-pack mentality? We were all extremely unsure, since we were clearly only interested in doing this:

(Dancing and throwing fake gangs signs, specifically). By the time we made it back up to our room, we were decidedly not in the mood to responsibly go through bedtime routines . . . which led to possibly the funniest 45 minutes of my life. We collectively decided that we were going to put pajamas on a friend who passed out in her party dress, and she (half asleep) rejected the yoga pants we shimmied onto her body with a fervor that can only be described as Stuart-esque. (“Nooooooo!“) Apparently she had forgotten our horrible abuse the next morning, when she woke up and chirped, “You guys, I don’t even know where these great pants came from! And look, they go up so far! That’s kind of weird . . .” I rolled over and saw that she had undone the fold-over waistband so that the pants covered her entire torso. Yes.

After we finished cry-laughing, we dragged ourselves out of bed for Richard Walker’s Pancake House: a paleo disaster zone, but the kind where you have to just honeybadger it. If you like pancakes, you are medically required to attend breakfast here at least once in your life. There will be a massive line…just get some coffee and be a champ, because you will never regret it. Recommendations: blueberry, chocolate chip, dutch baby, just close your eyes and point.

We’ve been to San Diego a lot, and we always stay at the same place: the Marriott on the water. One of the girls’ parents worked for the company, which definitely influenced our choice, but the place is just fantastic on its own. The pool is unreal. I spent a few of the most fun hours of my life there on Saturday afternoon, drinking a gin & tonic, listening to Baller tell awkward stories and holding three-month old Thomas. Yes, there was a baby at my bachelorette party, and he was a fantastic addition. He fell asleep on my chest while Hope was getting something out of her car, and I was so scared to wake him up, I held him in that position for like two straight hours. If you can tell that my right bicep is bigger than the left in my wedding photos . . . Mr. T is to blame.

While nothing is better than sleeping babies who koala-hug you, piano bars and drag shows are two extremely close seconds . . . hence my freak-out when I discovered we were hitting both on Saturday night.

Important background knowledge: my group of friends, while excellent at dancing and general cavorting, is horrible at shutting up when Motown music can be heard. In our defense, I think the normal human reaction to Brown Eyed Girl is to belt it, right? The queens at Lips (SD’s fabulous drag bar) gave us a verse or two before they started asking (over the microphone) for the “lesbian choir” to cool it. We declined, and the next diva took the stage with, “Shut UP, white ladies!” SASS FOR DAYS. Completely obsessed. Also, how do I convince M that we need to make over our bathroom to look like this?

 Disco balls make moisturizer application so much more exciting.

I was among the first few of my friends to get married, and at the time, I sort of wished that more of them had gone before me to gather intel. After that weekend, though, I’m so glad that there are many more celebrations like this ahead of us. In the rush of school and careers and babies, any time you take to just retreat with your favorite people resonates for so much longer than the time you actually spend together. This trip happened almost two years ago, and just thinking about it makes me so incredibly happy. Thank goodness for friends, man. And fold-over yoga pants.