… the bride and groom’s mode of transportation would be a Ferrarri, which means we would actually be late to the ceremony because you can’t outrun a two-way radio.

… the reception meal would consist of steak, Budweiser and Twinkies.

… the lovely “Here Comes the Bride” music would be replaced by something like Van Halen’s “Hot for Teacher” or another completely inappropriate song.

… the ceremony would take place in a barn, because we’d forget to book the church.

… the ring bearer would be our dog, Drillbit, who halfway down the aisle/barn floor would mistake the mother-of-the-bride’s hat for a woodland creature and lose the rings as he lunged for her head.

… our self-inscribed vows would be peppered with modifiers like “awesome,” “stoked,” and “killer.”

… the apparel of choice would be a denim version of dress casual.

… the invitations would be illegible missives scrawled on our “From the Desk of…” notepaper.

… every part of the service would conclude with high-fives among bridesmaids and groomsmen.

… the reception would last 24 hours, after which we would need to be removed by ambulance.

… the wedding colors would be surprisingly similar to those of our college alma mater.

… we’d recruit our best guy friends to help out, who would offer fabulous (i.e., ridiculous and self-serving) ideas like pot brownies instead of cake, see-through bridesmaid dresses and holding the reception on a floating casino.

… no women would attend, because they never liked going to our alcohol-soaked, wiener-fest frat parties in college in the first place, and the only difference between this and those sad galas is that now we’re older, heavier and have less hair. Not exactly an improvement.

Hopefully we wouldn’t be this bad, but you never know what happens when you put a bunch of guys together to plan something. You may get something with the spectacle and energy of the Olympic opening ceremonies. Or it may have all the spontaneity and drama of an office birthday party.

So I was talking with the husband co-owner a few weeks ago and he was telling me that they’re working 7 days a week right now to keep up with wedding season. I guess I never realized that this is something that brides and their bridesmaids do before the big day – stop by for a casual wax – and often en masse, although I can see the logic behind it. Sort of like a day at the spa but with more tears and shrieks (although I have yet to hear any yelling coming from their office).

Then I thought about if guys would ever do such a thing, and the picture in my head made me laugh out loud. Not in a million years, never, nihil, nada, no way jose. First of all, guys couldn’t handle the pain. Women are naturally programmed to withstand dramatically more pain than we are (Exhibit A: Childbirth). I remember Bill Cosby once saying that if you’re a guy and you want to feel the pain of childbirth, just take your lower lip and wrap it around your head. The planet would be empty if it we were the ones carrying babies, because none of us could handle the pain. Same situation for waxing. I’d rather look like Cornelius from Planet of the Apes and endure uncomfortable stares at the pool than have to endure a waxing session. Heck, I tear up when I pluck a stray whisker from my face; I’d probably pass out if someone ripped a whole strip of them off.

And this brings me to the second reason a group of groomsmen wouldn’t be caught dead in a waxing salon. It’s because, well, we really don’t want anyone removing things from our guy parts. When I do see the occasional guy across the hallway, sitting there calmly waiting for his appointment, I wince just at the thought that he might be getting his business waxed. And I don’t care how cute the waxing technician is, because once I feel that searing pain of the first rip, I’ll be squealing in the same octave that a choirboy sings. I saw The 40 Year Old Virgin, and although it’s certainly not billed as an educational movie, I learned volumes from that waxing scene.

Thankfully I’m not that hirsute, so I’ll never have to face a waxing strip voluntarily. But after thinking about the discomfort of waxing, I am humbled and a bit in awe at the lengths you women go to make yourselves look fantastic. Thank god you are okay with us guys being hairy beasts, cause for most of us you couldn’t tempt us into a waxing salon with a case of beer, tickets to the Super Bowl and the promise of nookie for a month (well, okay, that might work).

1. Your beer can collection – This should have been reduced to recycling debris by your mom long ago when you were away on your senior class trip (if people actually take these anymore), but in case she couldn’t get to it, your wife/girlfriend will.
2. Your most cherished t-shirt – That Def Leppard 1987 tour t-shirt that now resembles cheesecloth will soon become an implement for cleaning the floors.
3. Your favorite chair – It may be green plaid, it may contain more bacteria than a CDC lab, it may house the largest dust mite in the Western Hemisphere, and it may smell like one big fart, but doggone it, the chair is still as comfortable as the first time your big butt settled down into it. And it will be on the curb inside of a month.
4. Your junk drawer – Although this does contain many innocuous (partial decks of cards, nubs of pencils, etc.) and several useful items (shoestrings, allen wrenches, etc.), the baby will be thrown out with the bathwater due to the presence of a few crumpled, forgotten photographs of ex-girlfriends. Oops, sorry honey.
5. Your stash of Playboy – Even the most straight shooter has a few of these shoved into the bottom of his sock drawer, and you will actually throw these out to avoid any scenario in which your wife finds them, looks at you funny and makes you feel like a cretin (which you aren’t … heck, you first read Philip Roth in Playboy, so it’s not all bad).
6. Your warmest, coziest pair of sweatpants – You won’t lose these, per se … you will simply lose your right to wear them, as your wife will quickly commandeer them as the one article of cothing that makes her feel safe and secure and closer to you (which is kind of cute and sexy). Plus she looks much better in them than you did anyway, so this is a small sacrifice.
7. Your sense of proportion and reality for about 3 days out of every month – When you lived apart, you could manuever around PMS, slaloming around its sharp turns and unseen dips and dives. Now it will hit you head on like a screeching-yet-sympathetic Mack truck, and there’s no getting out of its way. Just remember, she didn’t ask for it either, so hold her hand while you’re both getting run over.
8. The ability to play air guitar while cranking your stereo to 11 without feeling like an idiot – Back when I had my own place, if I was feeling a bit raunchy and rebellious, I would crank up the Ramones or the Replacements, pull out my air guitar and throw down like a rabid Eddie Van Halen. Now every time I turn the stereo up past 9 o’clock I get a look like I should know better and, if that doesn’t do the trick, a comment like “some of us would like to hear ourselves think around here.” And she’s not talking about the dogs.

Now, although this may sound like me bitching, I’m really not, because all these things are totally worth losing. And if I have left anything out (which I’m sure I have) please let me know.

New York would be great, with its fantastic food, great clubs and excellent shoe stores (I love shoes). As would San Fran, the Left Coast counterpart to NYC. And then there’s those hidden gems like Vancouver (although the nightlife isn’t as amped up as NYC or SF) or San Diego.

However, I’m really intrigued by Miami and South Beach. Warm weather, great Cuban food, fantastic clubs and enough bikinis and bare flesh on the street that we could certainly get our fill of eye candy without sullying ourselves by cramming into a greasy strip club. Plus, since I’m getting married in November, we could have the party in early October and enjoy travelling from then-cold Colorado to sunny FLA. This sounds like the ticket … any other suggestions out there, or have I hit upon a good plan? Let me know…