Wish me luck! I’m going to need it . . .
I hit “Publish” and slid my phone into my back pocket. Then I sighed and looked in the hotel mirror again. I looked like a moron. Ashlee had joined me at the hotel to help set up and made the condom belts for the bridal party. She thought they were cute.
My phone vibrated. That was fast, I thought, assuming I had already gotten my first comment. But it was a text from Alex. Have fun tonight! with an eggplant emoji and a puking face. I laughed.
I’m wearing a bedazzled tank top and a belt made out of condoms, I replied. And I just hung a penis pi?ata from a hotel room ceiling.
Penis pi?ata? Pics or it didn’t happen!
I snapped a picture of myself in the mirror with the pi?ata visible in the background, miming shooting myself in the head with my free hand and hit “Send.” Things I never thought I’d say before this year: I’m sick of penis cake.
Alex replied with the crying-laughing emoji and That condom belt is H-O-T.
Shrieks of laughter started filtering through the closed hotel room door. Ugh, I wrote. Amy and her Brownie troop are here. Gotta go.
Have fun, he said again. I pocketed my phone and opened the door to let the girls in—Amy, three bridesmaids, and six other friends, two of whom I had known since they were babies, which was approximately five minutes ago. Four others had been her friends since high school. I had met them, but I had already been out of college by the time Amy started high school. One was Madison, freshly tanned from her “first honeymoon,” as they were calling their week at the resort in Mexico after the wedding. They would take their “real honeymoon” later in the summer in Greece. Apparently my brother’s job paid much better than mine. The other two girls I had seen at Amy’s shower that morning but couldn’t have greeted by name if my life depended on it.
“Lily!” Amy screamed, hugging me like she hadn’t seen me earlier that morning. She had a bottle of champagne in her left hand. “Look what Grandma gave me for tonight!” She spun around, taking in all of the decorations in the hotel room. “Oh my God, you guys! I’m going to cry! I love it!” She ran over to the penis pi?ata. “Quick, someone take my picture!” She opened her mouth very wide next to it, while three girls snapped pictures of her. I tried not to roll my eyes.
Once she had selected her favorite of the pictures, sent it to herself, and uploaded it to both her Instagram and Snapchat stories, she declared it was time for a drink. I peeked at my watch and saw it was only eight thirty. I was in for a long night.
“Does anyone have a corkscrew?” she asked, holding up the bottle of champagne and pulling the foil off the top.
“I do!” Ashlee pulled one out of her monogrammed “Maid of Honor” bag. “A maid of honor is always prepared.” Ashlee grabbed the champagne bottle and opened her corkscrew as the girls grabbed glasses and chattered excitedly.
“Whoa!” I rushed to Ashlee’s side. “You don’t open champagne with a corkscrew.”
“You don’t?”
I sighed again and looked around the room, then took the bottle from Ashlee, told the girls to have their glasses ready, and expertly opened it, wondering what would have happened had there not been a responsible adult there. I poured a few drops in all of the plastic “bachelorette” cups that were shoved toward me.
“To Amy,” Ashlee declared. “The future Mrs. Gilchrist.”
“To Amy,” everyone echoed.
“Now let’s get drunk!” Amy yelled, and the ensuing shrieks made me worry we were going to have a hotel noise complaint on our hands very soon.
By the time we left for the first bar, I had a splitting headache and had already begun to debate whether Excedrin was a better choice than drinking. But I figured it would be less intense once we were out of that hotel room. Besides, we were going to a bar in Adams Morgan that I used to love hanging out at. Granted, that was when I was Amy’s age, but it would be fun to go back to one of my old haunts, right?
No.
They say you can’t go home again. Well, they lie. You can go home. Going home is fine. Your mom may nag you about being single, but at least she’ll cook for you and feign concern while bemoaning your failure to produce grandchildren. You can totally go home.
What you cannot do, under any circumstances, is return to your favorite bar after not having gone for the last six years. Because the same people are still there. No, not the exact same people, because the exact same people are now your age and probably home with their spouses, babies, and dogs. But the same generic, midtwenties crowd is absolutely still there and suddenly you’re the oldest person in the room other than three creepy guys, one of the bouncers, and the dude who is clearly the owner. But unlike the other geriatrics in the room, I was wearing a belt made out of condoms.