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This weekend was the "last hurrah." The bachelorette  party.

We didn't do the stripper thing, and given that I spent most of my 20s in bars living life like a movie, there really weren't any more oats that needed sowing. Instead the bridesmaids and I got dolled up, went to dinner, saw a drag show and danced the night away, working on hangovers to rival that of my 20s.

Prior to all that though there were days of texts, phone calls and picture messages all concerning one thing: what to wear.

The only rules were to be as freaky or flashy as you want to be, and no one disappointed. Everyone wore sequins, big earrings, and even my heel adverse sister was rocking a pair of black pumps with her sparkly top.

I, on the other hand, turned a five minute walk to the restaurant into 15 minutes and for some reason thought it would be a good idea to wear five in stilettos with  a giant platform. Paired with a sequin skirt, black bustier style top and the longest black feather boa known to man, and I was almost a drag queen myself.

I was also chided by the Queen of Big Hair for having my hair teased up (for volume) so she couldn't get the pink tulle atrocity of a veil they made me in my hair.  Then again, I didn't do my hair with a headband covered in tulle and jewels, so it's really their fault for trying that in the first place. I would have been quite happy to just continue to shed feathers all over and wave the lollicock at people.

The night was pretty tame all things considered, but I still paid for it. With my feet (and a giant headache). Apparently dancing for hours on end in massive heels coupled with extremity numbing alcohol isn't really a great idea if you're planning on being able to walk the next day. Still, the pain is worth it for a few hours in those fabulous shoes.