So, Saturday was a scorcher here in New York. Normally, I’d have abandoned my suffocating apartment for the weekend to head down to the beach (South Jersey represent!), as is my usual custom during summer weekends. But, my older sister – let’s call her J – is getting married this summer, and as one of two bridesmaids (the other one being my twin sister, K), it was up to us to host that obligatory bash known as the bachelorette party.

hen party
The thing is, J is not a typical bride in the fashion of, say, Eva Longoria, or any one of the other million celebrities who’ve gotten hitched in the past year. The J here doesn’t exactly stand for Jessica Alba, if you know what I mean. We needed to do something unique to her, her humor and spirit. So K and I settled on what we thought was a J-appropriate day of partying: some drinks and funny gifts at our apartment, a private karaoke room in K-town, and then, the finale: a VIP table at Caroline’s Comedy Club, where BJ Novak was performing standup.

Now, I love me some BJ Novak – in no small part because he is eerily similar to a man I was in love with, who left me for the windy skies of Chicago – and all 15 of us were absolutely psyched for the show. We had had a blast at karaoke, spilled drinks and suffocating heat not withstanding. We were all in that warm, fuzzy spot of being tipsy enough to dance and sing uninhibitedly, but sober enough to navigate through the 10th circle of hell (you may know it as Times Square) to get to Caroline’s.

Did I mention this was this past Saturday? Which means, if you follow politics, it was also the day of Hillary Clinton’s big announcement. Which also means, if you know me, K, and J at all, we were glued to CNN, all prepared to cry and maybe scream a little at how stupid Democrats continue to be by refusing to elect the most qualified candidate and instead settling on who they (wrongly) consider to be the most electable. We were also, I admit, heartbroken. The three of us have devoted money and time to the Clinton campaign, and have watched, week after week, as she came roaring back every time she was discounted by the pundits. We’ve cheered her on in person, gotten into numerous fights on certain blogs which I will not name (um, hi, y’all. Sorry about my comments before.), and even had psychic premonitions that assured us of her victory (I plead the fifth).

So in between cleaning, cooking, setting up, and sweating in my apartment, K and I had to deal with calls from my mom (“Is it normal that I cried a little?”), messages from friends I had forgotten (“This blows. Btw, where have you been lately?!”), and our own internal suffering (“Once again, the hip guy swoops in and takes over, just like senior year when the popular jock steals the student council seat from the wonky girl because he needs something to put on his college application!”). Perhaps it was confounded by the incredible heat pouring in through the windows and seeping in from the cracks in the walls, but Saturday afternoon goes down as a kind of miserable day for me.

Fast forward to late afternoon when the bachelorette and her friends began arriving, though, and things were ok. I was nervous, as I always am when I host a party, but like I said, we got to karaoke just fine and all was going swimmingly. I was, in fact, having a blast, and more importantly, J seemed to be having the time of her life.

So we get to Caroline’s. Our seats were amazing. Our glasses were full. Our eyes were bright. Out comes the opener. And what’s his first joke of the night? Why, that Hillary Clinton is mannish, “cunty” (yes, he used that word), and too ugly to be President.

Here’s the thing: I don’t ask a lot of comedians. Be witty, be original, bring something new to the table that we haven’t heard before. If you think that calling an accomplished, brilliant woman “ugly” and “cunty” accomplishes any of these goals, perhaps you need to consider another line of work.

So in between the audience’s half-applause, half-boos, sits my table of bachelorette party attendees. There’s K on the other end yelling “I will kill him;” there’s J looking worried that she might indeed need to hold K back; there’s a host of women with big blinking eyes; and there’s me, sitting closest to the stage, wondering if it’s worth getting kicked out just so I could give this guy a piece of my mind. (Also, note to Caroline’s: would it kill you to include someone other than a white man in your lineup? The three performers on Saturday night could have been brothers. Hipster brothers.)

Instead, we let it pass. We got over it. You know why? Because I’m TIRED. I am so frakking tired of it all. I am suffering from political overdrive, Hillary mourning, heat exhaustion, blog overkill, and so much more. I am, simply put, completely OVER hearing other people’s opinions on this election. Newsflash: I don’t care anymore. You have all, collectively, beat any political will and interest I once had out of me.

And you know what? It feels kind of good to be over it all. I gave the stupid comedian dirty looks and refused to applaud him the rest of the night (we had the privilege of listening to him host the rest of the evening, yay). People like him – people who just don’t get it – only make me stronger in the end, as trite as that sounds.

And then the second opener came out a-swinging, making me wipe trails of tears from my face as I laughed too hard, prompting guffaws from every table and even, dare I say it, causing the comedian himself to break character and laugh into the microphone. And then my boyfriend BJ was on stage, and I swear he made eye contact with me once. And in his eyes I saw that man from Chicago, and a glimmer of what might have been, had the timing been right.

The night continued on, in private rooms of nearby bars, lost in shots of lemon drops and stories of marriage and men and kids and life. And as I raised my glass for a final toast to my sister J, I toasted Hillary too. I toasted my mom, my aunts, and my grandmothers; my sisters, cousins, and best friends; I toasted to all the people in the world who maybe, just maybe, do get where I’m coming from after all.

And at the next full moon, I will do the opposite of toasting to that comedian jerk. I will take that lock of hair he didn’t catch me stealing and bury it on a virgin’s grave, and we’ll see what kind of revenge he gets. Mwahahahaha.

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