Bachelor parties are social institutions that have been around since the first caveman hunted down the first wooly mammoth and decided it would be nice if someone decided to get naked dance around his accomplishment. I think I saw in a documentary that all the cavemen would lock themselves in the main hall of their buffalo lodges, watching a young lady slink out of her saber tooth tiger loin cloth. All the while their cavewives remained at home none the wiser. Then again, it might have not been a documentary but rather a Flintstones episode I made up in my head.
One of my closest friends is getting married. I have known this individual for more than 20 years. We went to middle school together and now he is going to be walking down the altar in a couple of weeks. Although I am happy for him, I am hesitant to show much expression, because I know what is coming around the bend. I know that bachelor party is looming large. There is something that hides deep inside my chromosomes that does not allow me to socially adapt to bachelor parties. The invitation is creeping around in the inbox of my email and I have yet to respond.
There is a good chance that I will end up going because I do not have a good enough reason for not going.
Let me state for the record, that I do not begrudge anyone for having bachelor parties. Everyone is entitled to their own prerogative. I am simply stating that I have social anchors that bring me down. I usually stand in the corner and choke down my fair share of refreshments while the rest of the attendees make a circle around the so-called “entertainment.” I cannot function properly within that circle and high-five the men to the left and to my right. I have been in the circle, and the men chastised me for looking at the young lady in the eye rather than in the everywhere else.
I do not belong in the circle because I do not know how to act accordingly – I make too much eye contact.
Yes, I have attended a handful of bachelor parties in the past, and they only left me blushing. In my younger days I felt that strippers were simply good-looking panhandlers because all they wanted from me was either a drink or money. I ask them questions like “Why?” or “Howcome?” I have yet to develop that strip club etiquette where you can simply tell someone to buzz off or ignore them like they do not even exist. I simply engage in too much awkward conversation — especially during a lap dance. I just think that I should know where someone went to high school or their favorite color when they decide to make my lap their second home.
I do not hate strippers or their career choice. They know what they are doing. I am the one who is a fish out of water. I am that guy who stands there with a $20 dollar bill asking them if they can make change for it, even after they have already taken it. In all honesty, I would much rather go to a funeral instead of a bachelor party. At least at funeral there is an established etiquette. There are established limits and you do not need a human gorilla sitting in the corner establishing the limits for you. There is no need to buy drinks. There is no need to make change when change is too busy making you.
[Photo By momoko]