Another night and I have to turn my phone off, because I’m in another text-fight with my boyfriend. I use that term loosely, because we haven’t ever called this a relationship, not in two-plus years. I’m on the opposite end of the spectrum from where I was a few years ago, when I was married. It seems no matter how tightly or loosely you’re connected to the opposite sex, there’s going to be trouble. Fifty percent of the time, marriage ends in divorce, right?
But there’s no reason a failed marriage has to bring us down forever. This is why I was recently invited to a girlfriend’s Divorce Party; to protect her identity, I’ll refer to her as DPG (Divorce Party Girl).
The night began with drinks at an unassuming casino bar Downtown. The divorcée’s friends adorned her with a sash that read, “Back on the Market” on the front, and “For a good time, who should we call?” on the back, and gave her a spec sheet to fill out with details on her dream man.
After as mature a dinner as one can have while wearing a sash, we headed to Don’t Tell Mama, where DPG received a blow-up doll, which she named Tony. Everyone helped draw on his features based on the sheet she’d been filling out. “As long as nobody draws him a mouth, we’re good!” she joked.
Next up: the Rio for a Chippendale’s show, sitting front row, center, while Tony waited patiently at the front door. (No men allowed, not even plastic ones.)
DPG went onstage for one of the routines and sat while a circle of muscular, shirtless men danced in her lap. She never broke into a giggle or stammer, never let her gaze fall. And that, in the end, was what set her night apart from the screaming bachelorette parties in the house: She had the experience.