John is off on a guy’s weekend at the cottage this Friday. He loves his guy weekends, as do I, which is to say I love when he goes away on them. I think men need to be with their own kind from time to time, preferably in a rural setting, where they can chop down trees, drink hard liquor and eat with their hands. Although the guys that John goes away with make their own biscotti. For all I know they also cry and talk about their feelings.
I am not as enthusiastic about girls’ weekends. Maybe it’s because I went to a girls’ boarding school, and a girls’ camp, but I’m just not a fan of all female communities, even if they are short lived. Men, when they are together, tend to make, or do, things: they fish, or hunt, or build docks and decks. Women make margaritas and birch bark candles. I am generalizing, of course, and I’m a fan of both those things, but I often (but not always) find women in groups to be seemingly earnest and supportive, but with an underlying layer of bitchiness, and a tendency to get shrill when they are drunk.
It will not shock you to know that I am not in high demand for girls’ weekends. Not anymore, anyway. I used to work for a radio station in Montreal that had me host a Ladies’ Getaway, and I couldn’t get away fast enough, spending most of the weekend in my room with a book. These women, God love’em, would head to the hotel disco and dance together until 3AM, which is my idea of the inner ring of hell. It’s me, not them. Us. Whatever. Last year, I was invited on another women’s weekend: it rained continually, I was grumpy, and I went to bed after beating everyone at Scrabble. I was not asked back.
I can’t think why not.