Though it took place over a decade ago, I can still picture the bride being carried aloft on a cheap plastic chair, blindfolded, as oiled-up men gyrated around her. I remember feeling very alone at the crowded male strip club. I also remember the shoes I wore. They were red sandals with sensible heels, and by their appearance should have been very comfortable. Instead, less than an hour into the evening, they had begun to brutalize my feet, which, by the time I got home, would be covered in tiny wounds. For a long time, I viewed bachelorette parties like I viewed those shoes. They had the appearance of comfort, the promise of a good time. But all too often, returning home from a bachelorette party, I felt covered in tiny wounds of the sort that take a surprisingly long time to heal afterward.