There’s this scene in the movie The Hangover, where Ed Helms, who’s joining his buddies for a bachelor party, reassures his on-screen love interest, Rachel Harris, that he’s not like the other guys. He nods his head in agreement as she blathers on disapprovingly about free-flowing alcohol and half-naked girls who, by the way, are somebody’s daughters. Not to fear, he says: It’s going to be but a quiet getaway to a B&B in Napa. He lies. He’s road-tripping in a classic car to Vegas where, suffice it to say, all her worst fears about bachelor parties are exceeded tenfold.
The movie is hilarious. Maybe a little bit genius. It plays to what I bet is a lot of why men like bachelor parties and women find them kind of distasteful, offensive and ridiculous. This one included. And so it isn’t without a great deal of trepidation that I bid my spouse farewell so that he might join his brother and a motley crew of manly-men for a dudes-only, “last hoorah” – insert dramatic eye roll here – for one of their lot. I spare him the speech and he reassures me, voluntarily, that, though this brocation will involve a sports car and a road-trip to Atlantic City and very probably alcohol and pole dancers, he’ll remain, at all times, sensible.
The Projected Pops’ brother astutely observed that this getaway might be just the ticket…a little time away from assisted baby-making. It could be good for him. And not a moment too soon. (Later this week, I’ll have myself a pee on a stick to determine we’re not anything close to pregnant. Would-be mother’s instinct. And I presume he’ll take it badly because there’s no other way to take it.) I hope – sure as I stand on my feminist soapbox bemoaning inequity – that he abandons his cares to a table game at the Borgata and comes back a happier man.
As for me, I marvel at the possibility. I can’t get away. (Because even if I did manage to escape for a weekend to someplace within an easy, few-hour drive from the fertility clinic, I’d still be hopped up on the residual hormones that have become my body’s constant companions.) It isn’t fair. Or maybe it is. Maybe we never get more than we can handle and, whereas I’ve got giant, steel ovaries I can handle lots. And maybe G-d knows better than my fortune cookie: I don’t need no stinkin’ rest. I’d just really, really like some.