Ides of May

By the time a woman gets around to planning wedding #3, she has hopefully developed a clear understanding of what she wants and, more importantly, doesn’t want-- if not in her choice of husband, than at least in regards to the wedding itself.

With my impeding nuptials, I am pretty firm about what I don’t want, with the "don’t list" rivaling the guest list. In fact, aside from an open bar, a kick-ass cake, and the groom (not necessarily in that order) there isn’t much about this wedding that I feel particularly passionate about. I just want it over, legal, and with as little fuss as possible.

Some assume that I don’t feel "right" about celebrating this occasion, since it is not my first. When friends learn that I’d rather go for root canal than register at the local department store, or that I haven’t given a moment’s thought to what I’ll be wearing (other than it won’t be white), they look as if I’m the Grinch that stole the wedding.

It isn’t that I am against any of the typical bridal trappings. I’ve had them all before. Really, for a third-time, 40-year-old, bride, like me, all of the pomp and ceremony would seem to be a bit cliché, if not redundant. And aside from being married twice before, I am anything other than redundant.

But now, despite my protests, gal pals Jules and Sonia have decided to ignore my anti-bridal platform and gone and done something truly awful.

They’ve planned a bachelorette party.

Don’t think for one minute that my friends are trying to do something nice for me. I do believe their motive is revenge for the time I duped them into going to the bachelor auction.

To make matters worse, it’s not just a party. It’s a girl’s weekend in my honor in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina—the Redneck Riviera for those of you unfamiliar with the eastern coastline. Myrtle Beach is a place where Michelob Ultra and Budweiser flow freely, and where romping wet t-shirt contests take place under the all-knowing eyes of the black velvet Elvis hanging above. And while I can throw back a Bud with the best of them, a bachelorette party anywhere and for any reason is unacceptable.

I’m convinced that the whole practice dates back to the days of the Vestil Virgins of ancient times. These women, who were forced to remain celibate for 30 years under the penalty of death, walked in procession through the streets of Rome and were always a spectacle for its citizenry. I can’t help but think after one of the virgins finished her term, she threw one major bachelorette party complete with marble penises, phallic symbols, and every pagan in town. Ironically, my modern version of this ancient tradition is going to be held during the Ides of May—the very same time when the ancient Vestil Virgins of Rome performed a rite to ensure the supply of water for the coming year. This is a sign, for sure. And all I’m saying is that I'm hitchhiking back to Raleigh the minute the first penis necklace comes out of hiding.

Bah humbug!