The weekend of hen-ning was a total success.
You know how it is when you get together with old university friends. Reminiscing about the past, laughing at the old memories and just generally enjoying the special time that has brought you back together again. Not with me and my friends. We certainly don’t sit there plaiting each other’s hair, drinking wine and getting teary and nostalgic.
When we do meet up, conversations turn into what can only be described as a tit-for-tat of who can embarrass each other the most. What should be friendly, memory-evoking conversations basically turn into a competition of who can tell the most outrageous story about the another person. Within moments of us reassembling, the stories come out. Remember when X paid for sex in Tenerife? Remember when X drank out of a puddle? Remember when X had to visit A&E to have a foreign object removed? Remember when…I think the picture is clear. To be honest, over time, most of the stories that we know about each other, instead of becoming watered down versions of their former truth, have actually become the opposite – the tales have become so exaggerated, so far removed from the truth that we have actually forgotten the reality. Never let truth get in the way of the good story, right?
In spite of the 5 of us seeming to hate each other (as many outsiders view our relationship), we are actually very close. I think you can liken the closeness of us to that of the relationship between a group of American frat boys – minus the wedgies. We absolutely hate outsiders. At uni, there were only five of us and we never made any other friends. We were too intimidating, hot and had too much sass. Okay, so everyone thought we were a bunch of tossers. They weren’t far wrong to be honest. Even now, when we get together, the heady atmosphere of competition (maybe we are those girls you read about in ‘Bella’ that have too much testosterone?) that surrounds us acts as a pretty effective new-friendship repellent.
When we heard about the upcoming nuptials of one of the group, we were excited and then hesitant. There would be a hen-party and we would have to mix with others. When we met the bride-to-be’s other friends, we wanted to hate them, wanted to exclude them from all our conversations but…they were too damn lovely. And they also had some stories of their own. One of the new girls charmed us with a tale of how she once walked out on a gentleman who fell a
little lot short of her expectation. Justin Trousersnake he was not. After his not-so-big-reveal, she grabbed her handbag and marched out of his apartment, declaring that she ‘didn’t do charity work’. These kind of stories win me and my friends over. We are a pretty sick bunch.
I guess that there will be a part 3 to this tale. I heard from the bride that in wedding guest attendance will be not one, not two, but three of my ex-boyfriends. I know! I don’t know how I found the time either. I have already warned The Dutch that the wedding might be a little bit like a game of who’s who, with the who being who I’ve kissed. So in the run up to the wedding, I will be doing what any other self-respecting girl would do. Starving myself.
So…here’s to the Bride!