It has come to my attention that the vast majority of my weekends this year are occupied by bridal showers, bachelorette parties and weddings. With five of my pregnant high school friends due in the spring, it is safe to assume that baby showers will consume my summer (we are Jews, we don’t have showers until the thing pops out). Considering the over-abundance of life events in my near future, I have decided to write a love letter to the brides/mothers-to-be in my life.
Dearest Bridezillas and Preggos,
Please do not get me wrong; I love you. I love you so much it hurts.
I love you so much I happily attend your bridal showers and eat bland salads while making awkward small talk with old women because for some reason Jewish hostesses love to seat the bride’s friends next to the mother-of-the-bride’s friends, so they can become besties before the big day. I can think of no other reason for this, and I implore future bridal shower hostesses to consider allowing us young’uns to sit together at one table so we can make fun of the old people’s bouffant hairstyles in peace. I watch you open 87 gifts and pretend to be excited over every single vase and kitchen utensil; I even pretend to be excited over the ugly China pattern you picked out because it reminds you of your dead grandmother’s coffee table.
I love you so much I fly to random locations to celebrate your last weekend of freedom, before you knowingly elect to spend the rest of your life having sex with the same person. I watch you open slutty lingerie that will be useful for the first year and a half of marriage, until it is replaced by sweatpants and a t-shirt with holes. I go to local bars with you, carrying an anatomically correct blow-up doll named Fabio, and singing karaoke with a toothless man named Carl.
I love you so much I spend weeks planning your baby shower, filling mini baby bottles with candy and composing games out of toilet paper and magic markers. I wander around Babies “R” Us like a deer caught in headlights, attempting to decipher your registry until I can only scream “What the hell is a Boppy cover?!” at any nearby stranger. I make playlists with every song that has “Baby” in the title and fill duck baby baths with juice and sparkling water; I pretend to be excited while watching you open gifts of diaper genies and breast pumps. Good luck with that.
Let’s make something very clear: I love you. You love me. Your love for me will be evidenced when, still single and child-free at 40, I request that you plan a massive 40th birthday party for me where we will fly to a random location. I will be registered at Macy’s for purses and shoes, Target for workout gear and electronics, and Pottery Barn for furniture and bedding. You will pick at least two of these stores and bring me lovely gifts, and I will pretend to be surprised when I open the gifts I’ve picked out. We will then go to a local dive bar, sing karaoke with someone named Carl, and somehow there will be a blowup doll involved.
I look forward to it. Love you!
(Photo: Sean Molin)
