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Let me start by saying I believe that when a woman gets to a certain age, it is perfectly acceptable to fess up to some juicier tidbits about her past. I mean at some point, who really cares?

That said, I’m forty-three years old and have a confession to make: I think bachelorette parties are swell. Here’s why:

Some years ago, a guy friend was marrying, well, how shall I say it? Hmmm…where is Kanye West when you need him?

Let’s just say that this woman told me that while she loved my friend, what she really coveted was marrying into his wealthy family where she would finally have the financial security she craved after so many years of being single and moving around the way so many of us did in our twenties.

She went on to say that after an unstable childhood (mom was a former Playboy Playmate – you do the math), she’d had enough of the fast lane and needed some serious rescuing. She was tired; didn’t she deserve to be taken care of?

She was twenty-eight at the time. A few weeks later, she brilliantly closed the deal, moving herself up the food chain to fiance in one brilliant strategic move. Knowing how much his traditional, religious upbringing mattered to my friend, she offered to convert to Judaism if he would propose. They became engaged later that month. No one ever said she was stupid.

During their engagement, friends watched her literally transform: new religion, new body (you figure it out), and as a final touch, cruising around town in his Mercedes, referring to herself (pre-wedding) as Mrs. X.

She had landed a good one and she knew it. Yes, his family was wealthy, but more than that, they were loving, wonderful people. She honestly did hit the jackpot, only in ways she would never recognize.

After a three-carat ring (to die for) and a wedding in the six-fi gure range, I thought, she’ll be pregnant within six months (bingo) and that will be the end of that. Insurance, you might say.

I was a bridesmaid and carried out my duties as required. Lavish bridal showers (three), one bridal luncheon, and the aforementioned bachelorette soiree, planned by the mother of the bride. An interesting concept, but it didn’t strike me as odd at the time.

I’d never been to a bachelorette party before and naively assumed it would be tame: dinner, drinks, a little dancing? I put on the classic LBD (girls, clue in the guys), strand of pearls (what was I thinking?) and out the door I went.

The evening started out nicely: a lovely dinner, maybe a bit more champagne than usual. Next thing I knew, a trolley was shuttling us to a slew of local bars known as a bachelorette pub crawl of sorts. You can always spot the bachelorette posse coming, with the telltale veil hanging off one girl’s head while her pals escort her to the bar, where the whole crew climbs on top for a little “when in Rome…” wildness.

Have I mentioned the champagne? I admit I was shaking in my pumps as I climbed up. Above my head was a rail to hold on to – how convenient. It certainly helped. However, once I got up there, (and I have no idea from what nether regions it came), I channeled my inner Tina and danced as I had never danced before.

It was the most incredible feeling. I knew how ridiculous it must have looked (pumps? pearls? Good God!) and didn’t care. It was wonderfully (ironically) liberating. And up till now, I’d deny that it ever happened, but for the sake of journalism.

Anyway, as we boarded the trolley for our final ride home, I noticed we had some company – a tanned, oiled up stripper waiting for the bride-to-be. And what a handy fellow he was – equipped with his own cans (plural) of Reddi-wip.

Talk about coming down fast. I was horrified and wanted to hide. Moments earlier, I’d experienced a rare uninhibited moment (note to self: need more of these) and now I just wanted to take cover.

So much for Tina. I shouldn’t have worried. Stripper-man couldn’t have cared less about me or the bride, because once her mom (enter the Playmate) took over, well, let’s just say she obviously had learned quite a few things with Hef and the girls at the Mansion.

My God, she was nimble with a nozzle. And so, in conclusion: I’m all for bachelorette parties and if I had to plan one, I’d offer this advice:

First, no stripper dude. I’m still trying to blot out the image.

Next, head to Boston for a girls’ dinner and champagne at Sonsie on Newbury Street. Once the gang is up to the task, follow it up with a little dancing at The Estate nightclub, in the Theater District, where I’m told there are several bars just perfect for helping a girl find her inner Tina.

P.S. I am a nice Jewish girl from New York and this was my first confession.