May
06

Bachelard Party.

I am having more than one bachelorette party. In fact, I am having a sort of bachelorette weekend. Friday the 18th my best friend and I will be recreating the evenings we used to have, evenings that generally involved substantial quantities of alcohol and dancing to loud music. Our approaches to nightlife have diverged substantially since those days—Dessa is now a busy emcee, and thus spends most of her nights in the company of a rhyming dictionary, an assortment of young men without last names, and legions of adoring fans. I, on the other hand, generally pass my twilight hours in the company of three cats, the televised cast of The West Wing, and melted cheese. It’s not as glamorous as it sounds, I promise you.
Anyway, there will be much revelry on the 18th, and Dessa is even urging me to wear one of those ridiculous “bride” tank tops, probably just so that she can photograph me in it to use as blackmail.

The next afternoon, Dessa, my mother, my two favorite cousins, and myself will be vigorously massaged by professionals, after which we will retire to my mother’s house for many, many cocktails, lewd jokes, and sushi. There may even be presents, and if I play my cards right I could still be drunk the next day, which might take the edge off my much anticipated waxing, scheduled for that afternoon. All in all the weekend should be a satisfying send-off to my years as a single lass, much more satisfying than a straightforward reprisal of those years would be, especially as so much of them was spent smoking cigarettes and brooding unattractively.

But, believe it or not, my bachelorette weekend is not the point of this entry. No, the point of this entry is what the Actually is doing to celebrate the end of his time as a swinging single.

“Could I have a bachelor party?” he asked after hearing about my plans.
“Of course!” I said, “I’m sure Adam (brother-in-law/best man) would throw one for you!”
“No, I know what I want to do.”
“Great. What?”
“I want to stay in a hotel for a night,” he says, getting excited, “and maybe I could get that Jurgen Habermas book, and stay up all night reading it.”

Huh.

“You want to stay in a hotel alone.”
“Yes.”
“And read.”
“Yes.”
“Alone.”
“Yes.”
“Just you and Habermas.”
“Well, I might watch a movie or something.”
I wrinkled my forehead and tried to look like I was trying to remember something. “Remind me who Habermas is again?” I said, pretending I had ever known such a thing.
“He’s a social theorist—but it doesn’t matter, because his work has mostly been discredited.”
“Ah. I see. So in lieu of a bachelor party you’d like to spend a night reading a discredited social theorist.”
“In a hotel. I love hotels.”
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to hire a hooker to read the Habermas to you?”
“You’re saying I should read something more fun.”
“Well…ok, yes, that’s a start.”

After much deliberation, the Actually has revised his plan, forgoing the Habermas in favor of Julian Stallabrass’ High Art Lite: British Art in the 1990s. A real barnburner, I am told.
“It has a huge section on Damien Hirst,” the Actually assures me.

Obviously I will be in charge of planning our anniversary celebrations.

By Alexa | Posted in Ceci N'est Pas Une Ecrivaine |