The first bachelorette party I ever attended was the weekend before my economics midterm. I paid $25 for a T-shirt that I never wore again, $20 for a mandatory pink feather boa (to match the shirt), and miscellaneous fees for meals, drinks, taxi cabs, a luxury hotel suite, a belly dancing class, and a "pleasure party" gift. I left early because of my test, so I didn't get to stay for the best part: watching the blushing bride-to-be vomit in a taxi cab.

I guess you could say I got off cheaply. The original plan was to fly to Miami, all for the low, low price of $1,017. After weeks of email drama where those with financial concerns were chastised for "stressing out the bride," the location and plans were changed, and the maid of honor patted herself and the bride on the back for being so accommodating.

I assumed that this was a one-off. That the next bachelorette party would be cheaper and easier, and less drama-filled.

Surprise! Bachelorette parties suck. All of them.

For the uninitiated, bachelorette parties are really just an expensive exercise in narcissism. They're a practice not so different from overpriced weddings, baby showers where you spend two out of three hours opening gifts, and your eventual son's bar mitzvah featuring Nicki Minaj.

The average bachelorette party features classy decorations including but not limited to penis-shaped balloons and penis confetti. You know, everything you need to spur profound conversations with your closest confidantes on the meaning of marriage.

And then there are the "naughty girl" bachelorette parties. You know, the ones where the bride is really pissed that her fiancé is heading to the strip club, but instead of hashing it out with him, she just gets her own male stripper and "tee-hee-hee"s her way into thinking she's living in some sort of egalitarian fantasy.

Defenders of bachelorette parties insist on the importance of having one last hurrah with your friends before getting married. Because, well, once you're married and can't eat penis-shaped cookies, your life is clearly over.

Seriously, though, I'm confused. First we're supposed to spend hundreds of dollars to celebrate your singledom, and then we're supposed to spend hundreds of dollars on your wedding festivities to celebrate your not being single anymore? Am I missing something? Can't we just choose one?

Until we get our act together and either do away with bachelorette parties altogether or at least make them much less extravagantly ridiculous, I'm stuck saving up my paycheck to watch my brother's fiancée unwrap fuzzy pink handcuffs (true story, although I've tried to block it out). I'm stuck hearing my coworker talk about her experiments with anal sex in a heated game of Never Have I Ever. And I'm stuck picking up pieces of penis confetti one by one from the hotel floor to save some poor innocent maid from being scarred for life.

My own maid of honor, who had heard about all of my bachelorette horror stories, heeded my requests for a relatively low-key celebration (which admittedly I'm sure my friends still probably thought was overpriced and unnecessary, but at least there weren't any strippers or penis paraphernalia). The party was a morning brunch followed by a mani-pedi session at a local salon the day before the wedding. Of course, the bride from my first bachelorette party — the one who barfed in the taxi — couldn't make it.

In her honor, though, I did request one small and ridiculous luxury for my own soiree: a sparkly pink T-shirt. I never wore it again.

Courtesy of Jessica Levy

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Jessica Levy Jessica Levy is a freelance writer, politics junkie, and fledgling foodie.

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