You know what I love about weddings?

Bachelorette parties.

Laying around a secluded pool with a few of your closest calmest and most innocent girlfriends while sipping on lemonade in the hot Palm Springs or Vegas sun, really makes me feel relaxed, rejuvenated, revived.

Just a couple of us gals chatting about finger nail polish and recipes, “So how do you make that sauce?” one of us will say to the other. Later on we gather around singing kumbia and if we really get crazy we’ll play, truth or dare. “I dare you to say the F word,” one of us will say to the other. “Well only if you tell me the truth about how you make that sauce…”

It’s really a super time.

I would give you a blow by blow of what we all did on this last girly-gathering but my mom has always said don’t do anything you wouldn’t want printed on the front page of the newspaper but there is simply no room for my story on the front-page. So I wouldn’t want to bore you with any kind of details in this silly little column far, far from the front page.

On a different and almost unrelated note, I went on a date last week. I haven’t done that in a while.

I say almost unrelated because when you’re my age and you go on a date the night before getting into get in a mini van with seven of your married and almost married friends… it’s the equivalent to announcing that you may have discovered a way to eat fries and not gain weight.

They want information and they want it all.

“So, how was it?” they will start out. But I know what they really want, they want details and by details they want to know about any weirdness, creepiness, rudeness or obsession with Mickey Mouse this person may and hopefully may not have.

I have to be careful because if I use the adjective “nice” too many times it will either bore them or alert them that it’s probably not going to last. Fortunately, I was able to use descriptions such as interesting and engaging. In which one will ask, “interesting, like he has a lot of interests or he’s just weird?”

The truth is I am terrified on first dates. I watch a reality TV show where the girl has to go on date after date with different guys and honestly I would rather be stuck in an elevator with one of those smelly amusement park goers (you know, the ones you find in line at Space Mountain, who shy away from deodorant on a hot summer day.)

I’m not sure what it is about the whole process but I do know that I need to get over it.

The poor guy who took me out the other night started the night out with a joke. He said, “Wow your lucky you live across the street from a scrap booking store.”

If he only knew that the last guy I dated owned a Caboodle, he would know that I couldn’t have even recognized his comment as a joke but instead spent the next 20 minutes wondering if perhaps he scrap-booked on the weekends.

If I only had the front page to share all the juicy details of my date, perhaps I would, but I don’t. I just have this space and what happens in this space stays in this space.