Yesterday I was at a very lovely bridal shower and the unthinkable happened: it was infiltrated by men. No, not the groom, not that obligatory aw-shucks moment where he comes in and a bunch of slap-happy drunk overestrogened women scream "AAAAWWW" when he walks in. You know, and then he sits hunched over and eats a piece of cake after saying hi to all the women whose names he won't remember and they pepper him with questions that make no sense to him since they're based 99% on inside jokes that occurred during the shower and then red-faced he takes all the presents to the car and thinks "Man, am I glad that's over."
No, these were different, non-groom guys who got the cake but not so much the humiliation, but moreover, they saw what goes on at a bridal shower, which no man is meant to see. They saw the opening and passing of gifts. They saw an extended discussion on self-adhesive wrapping paper, the life expectancy of the Lily of the Valley, the mutual admiration of accessories. The making and re-making of coffee, the praising of the hostess, the helping of the dishwashing. The scoring of cocaine, the placing of bets, the dogfighting. The human fighting. The punching, the bleeding, the crying. The wiping up of the blood, the apologies. The request of colorist's names. The polite refusal. The re-ignition of tempers. The fire. The showing off of the wedding and bridesmaids gowns and the scorn, oh, the scorn.
"How do you like your first bridal shower?" we asked the somewhat bewildered, but now, stuffed with bacon and cake and horrible memories menfolk, and not knowing what to do with themselves, they said "Fine!" and then went home and thought "Man, am I glad that's over."
The natural order of things, ladies. There is a reason for it. Men at bridal showers might be cute but some secrets are not meant to be shared. Next thing you know they're going to find out we don't actually menstruate but just made up an excuse to be a carte blanche bitch once a month.
I've said too much.