On Saturday night I did the unthinkable: I went to a fun bachelorette party.
The last bachelorette party I attended was in 2004, and with all due respect to the bride-to-be at the center of that affair, it was an annoying, embarrassing mess. I recall stopping by one of my favorite bars that night and apologizing to the bartender for being part of the obnoxious gaggle of girls who had invaded the place. Yuck.
So I wasn't expecting much on Saturday evening. However, thanks, I believe, to the charm and verve of Mindi, the bride-to-be in question this time around, I had a lovely time. The evening started with snacks at Picaro. Well, it started for me with snacks at Picaro. The other women began the party while I was still at work with a visit to a "rustic spa" in the Mission. I've never been there, myself, but their descriptions of the place afterward were hysterical. After filling up on tapas, we went to Casanova, one of my usual Mission haunts.
There was no reason to be embarrassed this time. For one thing, Mindi was not wearing a veil (thank goodness), and there was a decided minimum of screeching from the rest of us. We were just like any other group out on a Saturday night. Well, except that we were, in my opinion, significantly more saucy. My friend Wendy caught up with the party at about 10:30, even though she doesn't know Mindi. But Mindi made her feel very welcome.
Here's the sad part, however. At about 11:15, after a total of perhaps two cocktails, I was ready to go home. I say "perhaps two cocktails" because I had one glass of sangria at Picaro and then ordered two cocktails at Casanova. But I finished neither of my two Casanova drinks. In fact, I probably only drank a quarter of my second one. I wasn't drunk; I wasn't sick; I was just done. I was supposed to hit my friends Bridget and Shannon's party that night as well, but that was not meant to be.
I'd blame my lack of stamina on the fact that I work weekends, but that would just be a feeble excuse. For my first four years in San Francisco I worked at 10 a.m. on Saturdays and Sundays, but that did not stop me from going out and staying out until the wee hours of the morning on weekends. These days, I'm just old and must confess that I like going to bed at a reasonable hour so I can get up and go running before work. Even on the weekend.
How did this happen? I don't have kids. I don't live in the suburbs. I rarely have to be at work before 11 a.m. any day. So what's up with all this wanting to go home early? I truly think it's just that I'm old. What a sad realization for a former party girl.