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The Big Girl's Bachelorette Party: The Morning After

I was drifting in my chair, waiting for my friends Michelle and Beth to arrive. I wondered, how awake are most women before their bachelorette parties? I imagine they are like I was as a teenager, before any major party or dance; they prepare. They do their nails, try on outfits, not scrub their toilets, like I just had.

"Don't lift a finger!" Michelle kept saying, but I insisted on having the party at my house. They thought I was being over-accommodating; my small house was hardly party-ready. But it was MY party, and the best thought that came to me when I was asked, "What do you want to do for your bachelorette party?" was being with my women friends in my living space, with lots of food and red wine. Oh, and no penises--rubber or otherwise.

Beth thought I was kidding, feigning propriety.

"Vegas baby!" was the first thing that came out of her mouth when I told her I was engaged.

"Actually, I was thinking of something a little more subdued for the bachelorette," I'd said.

"OK, we can bar hop closer to home."

"That sounds fine. But no hopping is necessary; and it doesn't have to be at a bar."

"Well then, where do you want to have it? A restaurant?"

I wanted a place where my friends and I could hang out for as long as we wanted.

"How about my living room?"

My girlfriends took my wishes at face value, though as we got closer to the event I sensed they had some mischief in mind. The kind of mischief that comes to your door pretending to be a pizza delivery guy, or a police officer, looking for the Bad Girl of the house.

The Conflicted Bride

When B-friend proposed to me I remember being happy and impressed that he "caught me" unawares. I subconsciously dreaded that I would know of his plan to ask me to marry him and have to fake surprise. Or worse, that he would share his plan with me, and our search for a ring would be my implicit answer to his un-asked question. That would have been like sex without foreplay, or foreplay without sex. I wanted to have the emotional orgasm, the one everyone talks about, where the woman cries and is overcome by joy and unequivocal certainty that this moment seals what was destined to be.

And yet there were qualifications that I applied to this moment--it couldn't be over-the-top, which for me meant that it couldn't involve planes, football stadiums, a staff of waiters--basically other people. It had to be understated and authentic, yet it had to bowl me over, somehow, in a way I had not yet defined. That's why I was so impressed with B-friend's proposal--it adhered to the contradictory logic of my seemingly impossible desires.

When the moment finally arrived I was so surprised that B-friend got it right, and that I hadn't been fighting with him for months beforehand about why he couldn't ask me. He'd never been coerced; though admittedly, because this was the case, I had to question his motives: Did he ask because his brother was thinking of getting engaged, and as the elder brother he wanted to beat him to the altar? Was it because a few of his best friends had popped the question to their girlfriends, and he was feeling a matrimonial form of peer pressure? B-friend scoffed at these motives when--much, much later, after I'd said yes--I asked him why he asked me to marry him when he did. The irritation in his denial signaled another message to me: Give yourself a little credit, Jory.

I noticed that when he popped the question, there was a tinge of restraint in my joy. Although I'd been asked for nearly a year by friends whether B-friend was "The One," and I'd said "I think so;" though I'd just come from a trip visiting my sister and lamenting, "I KNOW he's not going to ask for at least another year;" though I was deliriously happy that B-friend had surprised me and shown me he was ready to commit to a level that I hadn't given him credit for, something wasn't right.

I fixed the link to my previous post--click away!

Thanks, Sara, for pointing out my major gaffe--my link to my BlogHer post this week was broken. Mea Culpa! This is like the blogging equivalent of forgetting to zip your fly, or tucking the back of your skirt in your pantyhose. Bad form.

To What End, this Sacrifice? The Difference Between Male and Female Bootstrappers is now officially linkable!

To What End, this Sacrifice? The Difference Between Male and Female Bootstrappers

My latest on BlogHer after reading about some fairly gnarly--and fairly lucrative--ways of building company value. Women, be warned: the guys don't wash.

The Businesswomen's Guide to Wedding Planning, Rule #1: DELEGATE

This post will be short because I've just spent the last five hours on "wedding details." I did the same yesterday, knocking out the wedding schedule with B-friend, experiencing massive bouts of anxiety and striking out at him occasionally when he asked the same question more than once, or asked for clarification. I have no time for clarification, or personal hygeine, today. With one month left, I'm feeling the pressure.

In Memoriam: Craig Cline, The Accidental Guru

I hadn't spoken to Craig in a couple months, which was strange for us. Back when we worked together we had lunch together nearly every day. Usually he checked in via email, or called with some interesting tidbit about someone we used to work with. Since he'd moved on to consulting independently, and I'd left my full-time job to work on projects, and then BlogHer, our communication was sporadic.

When he called he sounded tired--not unusual for Craig Cline. He often slurred his speech or let his sentences trail off out of a laziness of sorts. I'd gotten to know Craig after a stroke he'd had about six years ago and suspected that his speech and movement were a result of his near-death experience. He emerged from it with an efficiency; a refusal to overexert. The resulting conversation was flat, almost stoic, though his words were often loaded with meaning.

"You OK?" I said.

"I have a cold," he said. I was surprised that he didn't want to elaborate. That's what Craig and I provided for each other--elaboration--a desire to dig into subjects more deeply than we could with others.

I've written about how Craig and I met, though I named him Calvin in my most public writing to spare him any damage my work may cause to him professionally. Looking back, I see none of the cover-up was necessary; Craig was apolitical and not concerned about fallout like I was. He never said anything about people that he wouldn't say to their face, but he only offered his thoughts if you asked. I suppose that's why we got along so well: I always asked.