I’d never been to a real bridal shower before, with balloons and buffets (note the plural) and centerpieces in the bridal colors. It’s so… girly: young women in heels and sparkly jewelry, older women in Coldwater Creek suits, and everything with a big bow on it, including the bride-to-be. The “activities” masqueraded as games, but actually constituted a highly regimented enforced feminization, and all the prizes were effusively floral bath products and arcane styling tools.
I won a couple of prizes and was inexplicably given several more: products to strip my exterior roughness, lotions to smooth me, eyeshadow and glossy lip stuff to make me slippery and shiny, and a pretty parcel full of metal prongs and barbs to strip off the horny and hairy bits of my face, feet, and hands. I was first tickled, then bewildered, and finally (secretly) a trifle panicked at this windfall of girly goods heaped on my lap, presumably intended to induct me, willy or nilly, into the ranks of girlkind.
But there was unlimited cake and coffee, so it all balances out.