I vowed never to fly Southwest again, but Sarah was having her bachelorette weekend in San Francisco, and her maid of honor booked us all on the only airline that had managed to find pilots and a crew who also happened to be hilarious stand-up comedians.

Normally I would book my own flight for such affairs, but I didn't want to rock the boat for two reasons: (a) This was Sarah's second engagement, so I wanted things to go off without a hitch, and (b) I was physically frightened of her maid of honor, Tanya.

Tanya is a friend from Sarah's childhood, and even though I've met her several times over the years, she still seems somewhat shy until she polishes off three to seven Guinness stouts and then forces you to arm-wrestle her. Although I take pride in working out on a semiregular basis, I do not consider myself capable of winning any sort of wrestling match with a boy, a girl, or any sort of Pacific Islander descendant. I get incredibly anxious when challenged to any test of strength and usually end up pulling a groin muscle no matter where the area of strength being challenged is centralized.

I had steered clear of Tanya for the better part of the weekend, but on the last night in San Francisco we all came back to the main suite to continue drinking, and Tanya slowly but surely transformed herself into Michael Vick. Two of the girls had passed out on the floor, and I knew that being trapped in a hotel room with a dwindling crowd was going to minimize my ability to outmaneuver her.

I was doing everything in my wheelhouse to avoid a one-on-one altercation. I averted eye contact when she tackled an innocent lamp that had said and done nothing to her. When I saw an eight-hour-old chicken finger fly through the living room into the bedroom and heard it split in two, I looked yonder. When gummy bears were being hauled in the direction of my head, with one in particular landing inside my ear, I intercepted further missiles with my hand, deftly masking my movement by cupping my ear and pretending to hear knocking on the door. I did not want to give in to the bully and let her know I found her teasing considerably disappointing.

I did, however, step in when she called room service requesting an omelet with three black men inside. I grabbed the phone out of her hand and told the person on the other end of the phone, "Black beans. An omelet with black beans, please." I hung up the phone, unplugged it from the wall, and hid it in my suitcase.

"God, Chelsea," Sarah said, trying to light a cigarette with the remote control. "You've really turned into a killjoy."

"Did you really just hide the phone?" Tanya asked me as I stood with my hands on my hips. I knew by their reactions that certain measures were going to be dealt as a warning to me and my body.

One by one, the remaining six of us were forced to arm-wrestle again and again. It wasn't Tanya's strength that I found intimidating; it was the starry, retarded way her eyes focused on me, like Mike Tyson getting ready to feed. I didn't even try to put up a fight the first few times, but the celebratory high-fiving and hooting, combined with half a gummy bear's torso still stuck to my eardrum, were reason to grow delirious.

"Fine, you fucker, let's go!" I yelled, getting into position on the floor while my friend Shannon video-recorded what would inevitably turn into a violent episode of The L Word. I hoped I could turn my anger and humiliation into a sort of rabies strength but was reminded time and again who was in charge. Losing in conjunction with the stadium cheering wasn't the worst part; after she beat each one of us, she would leapfrog onto the back of our heads, crushing our faces into the carpeting, and then spank us. It was beyond embarrassing.

The next morning was pretty painful for everyone, and our ride to the airport was quiet. Once we boarded the plane, however, a surge of energy overtook the girls and the conversation quickly turned to Sarah's honeymoon on safari and whether she was planning on letting her fiance fertilize her first egg in the African bush. All the rest of us went through our timelines for children, and inevitably, even though I had put on my eyeshades and was trying to avoid participating in any conversation, I was the last one left to harass.

"I don't want kids," I said without taking off my eyeshades. "That's why I take the morning-after pill every morning, whether I've had sex the night before or not. I also take calcium to keep my bones strong, and Ted and I take Ensure just to stay active." I didn't have the energy or interest in a real conversation and was secretly hoping that Tanya wouldn't order a Bloody Mary when the sky waitress approached. "Has anyone here tried Boniva?" I asked the group.

"You should so have a baby," Tanya advised me.

"Of course she should," Sarah agreed. "She acts like she hates kids, but it's not true. Just look at how she was last night, like a camp counselor. Hiding the phone from us. You're going to change your mind, Chelsea. You'll probably end up with more kids than any of us. Just wait."

I would rather sit next to a transgender person and discuss why every single one I've met smells like a bar in the daytime than listen to people tell me why I want to have children and that I just don't know it yet. I do know, because I'm me and my feelings are the ones in my head. I don't want to have kids, and it's not a device to get attention or have conversations about it. I simply find children incredibly immature and, more often than not, dumb.

"Oh, my God!" Tanya wailed. "Look at this poor dog!" She handed me her BlackBerry so I could look at the picture of the canine. "He's redlined, so they're going to kill him on Monday in San Diego unless you rescue him." I pushed up my eyeshades to see who she was talking to and realized it was me. "He's so sweet. He's beautiful," she persisted.

"Then you get him," I said.

"I just rescued Lucifer three months ago, and he's really skittish still. I have four, and my husband says we're at our limit."

"What about Sarah?" I asked.

"I live in an apartment," Sarah replied, opening a magazine to signal that this wasn't a conversation she was interested in pursuing. Then, for good measure, she snickered and added, "Chelsea, you've been trying to rescue a dog for months."

I didn't have the energy to turn around and punch Sarah in the coslopus. I wanted Tanya to stop talking. I wanted to stop hearing about kids and dogs and even Beyonce if she were to come up. I was weak from the wrestling and from the detox cleanse that Ivory, Sarah, Tanya, and I decided to start that morning. The three of us had committed to do it together in anticipation of Sarah's wedding and were excited at the prospect of losing ten to forty-seven pounds in six days. I had already ordered a thermal track suit to assist in shedding any additional bloat. Like every other time I've tried to deprive myself of food, my head was slowly spinning and a wave of nausea was throwing my equilibrium off course.

I looked at the picture, looked at the tarmac that hadn't started moving yet, and felt feverish. I wondered how long it would take me to get my hands on some Excedrin once the plane landed, and then I wondered how cavemen dealt with hangovers without access to Excedrin. I looked at Tanya, who was staring me down from the seat next to me, and thought that she would have made a good caveman. If getting a dog was what it was going to take to end the conversation so I could sleep, then that's what it was going to take. "Fine. I'll have Eva pick him up tomorrow."

"Who's Eva?" Tanya demanded.

"My assistant."

"You can't have your assistant pick him up, Chelsea. You need to bond with him," she advised me, gripping my wrist very aggressively. I pulled my hand away with a buoyed confidence; we were in public, and she was less likely to harm me with so many witnesses. I was fed up with Tanya and wanted her off my jock.