When it began ...

This is one of my earliest columns. It was published in January of 2004 in The Independent. Thought I'd share.

Where's the bachelor booth?

This one might get me in some trouble, but it was too good to pass up, so I'll take the risk.
It was one of the coldest, bleakest days of the year. Instead of sitting inside watching football, I was standing in a line in the foyer of the Big Sandy Superstore Arena in Huntington.
The line, which snaked around the outer area of the arena two or three times, was comprised mostly of young women, who were excitedly chatting away. The few men present looked a lot like me: Hands in pockets, eyes on the floor. But how excited could you expect us fellows to be about a bridal show?
I tried to put on an enthusiastic face and tell my fiancee that there was no place I would rather be on a cold, dark Sunday than surrounded by a throng of women in full wedding-planner mode as they jockeyed for position at the various bridal boutique and gift registry booths under the dim lighting of an arena I hadn't been in since the Huntington Blizzard left town.
I'd make a joke about hockey players shaking in their skates at the sheer carnage on display at the bridal expo, but it seems a little too easy.
Anyway, we spent probably a half hour in line, during which I answered a record number of wedding questions with the response "yes." Wouldn't it be nice to have a string quartet? "Yes." Should we get someone to videotape the service in addition to a photographer? "Yes." Is it true your parents were never married? "Yes."
When we got to the front and paid for our tickets, a lady handed my fiancee a star sticker for her to place somewhere on her person, so all the folks wheeling and dealing within would know that she was the bride.
"And not me," I said to the lady. She gave me a consolation laugh that told me she had heard that joke about 100 times already that day. This is off to a good start, I thought to myself.
We wedged our way into the arena, and my bride-to-be was bombarded with forms to fill out, drawings to enter and products to try. I, meanwhile, had the honor of standing around and looking useless, as packs of women knocked me into other packs of women, which is not nearly as pleasant as it sounds.
As I looked around at all of the limousine services, DJs, travel agents and department stores vying for our attention, I began to notice something was missing. There were plenty of places to look at wedding dresses and bridesmaids' gowns, but there wasn't a single booth there to help a man get some ideas for his bachelor party.
I remarked to my fiancee how offended I was at the incredible bias displayed by the organizers of the event.
"I want a booth where I can sample mixed drinks and watch women take their clothes off," I said.
I winced in anticipation of a negative reaction, but instead received laughter, reminding me of why I'm marrying this person in the first place. Then again, she might have just been buttering me up so I wouldn't get grouchy during the fashion show.
That's right, I said fashion show.
Three of them, really, which came out to an hour and a half of people strutting around in dresses and tuxedos to flashing lights and techno music. And when it wasn't techno, it was country.
I did what I always do when this happens, and began playing the opening power chords to Rush's "Tom Sawyer" in my head. But the recesses of my imagination were no safe haven against this brutal assault on the senses, especially when one of the models brought out a dog in a tux and top hat.
"I'm in hell," I said.
Finally, my fiancee agreed to leave, and we burst out of the auditorium doors into the cold air. I took a deep breath, purging everything I had just witnessed from my system.
My fiancee thanked me sincerely for going, which immediately made me feel guilty for my behavior. So I'm already planning a time to heap apologetic gifts on her. Looks like we're going to be just fine. 
BEN FIELDS can be reached at bfields@dailyindependent.com or (606) 326-2651. .