The typical uniform of a sorority girl, particularly in the fall, consists of a perfectly painted face, leggings, an oversized sweater, Michael Kors riding boots, an adorable patterned scarf, a Longchamp tote complete with a pin denoting your love for your letters, and of course your Starbucks skinny pumpkin spice latte, beneath a flawlessly groomed head of hair. Of course there are variations of this, but the bottom line is that we make it a rule to look our best whenever we leave the house. You never know who you’ll run into, be it a PNM, the future love of your life, or that asshole, Captain Jack Sparrow from your “P is for Party” mixer. Of course, to every rule there is an exception, and the exception to this rule comes every Sunday morning… afternoon.
You wake up on Sunday with a pounding in your head, wondering what in the heavens you’re doing awake at this untimely hour of….11:37. Damn. It’s already past 11? The memory of how much shit you actually have to do today resurfaces from beneath the layers of alcoholic repression where you buried it, so despite how your pillow longs for another few hours, you decide you’ll wake up and start your day. But not without the 2 of your 3 roommates who also seemed to have made it home last night. You snuggle into one of their beds and forcibly make them wake up, because you’re starving, and it’s time to make moves to the hub and heart of all things hungover: your campus’s local feeding grounds. At many schools, this place is Waffle House, perhaps at your school it’s a diner, or an IHOP. We have a bagel shop, and its simply phenom.
You grab a pair of yoga pants, and decide that having any fabric directly touching your body would be far too ambitious right now, so you opt instead for a pair of comfy gray sweats, and wonder why you didn’t put them on last night. You debate back and forth for a minute whether you should change out of last night’s bedazzled top into a t-shirt… Ehh, as long as you throw on a zip-up no one will know. You grab the cross-body bag, wristlet, or clutch you were carrying last night, chuckle to yourself about how ridiculous it looks with the rest of your “outfit,” and with a quick “meet us for breakfast, slutbag. We’re leaving in 5” text to your estranged roommate, you’re on your way.
The thought briefly crosses your mind that you should have perhaps checked a mirror before walking into the place where you not only suspect, but can say with absolute certainty, that you WILL see almost every person you know, and more than likely will experience a flashback of saliva-swapping affairs to forget upon seeing an old hook-up’s fraternity brother. You trudge on. You are quickly able to brush off that feeling of angst, as the general mood of the establishment reeks of cheap vodka and regret. It’s hard to tell if everyone in there seems extra loud because they’re still drunk, or because you’re hungover, but all you know is you should have popped an advil or five before you left. Every greeting from this point forward has converted from the usual sorority call of “Omg hi sweetie!” with the response, “Oh hi! How are you girl!” to the Sunday version of said greeting: “So… how was YOUR night” to which you respond “Please, I can’t.” Even in this state we are able to maintain conversations during which each party is fully aware that the other doesn’t give a shit about what she has to say.
Your roommate finally strolls in. She’s wearing man-pants, flip-flops that extend wayyyy past her feet, and doesn’t bother to take off her giant sunglasses which are undoubtedly covering the eye make-up down by her cheeks. If her hair doesn’t say “I just had sex” it’s unclear what does. You hope she looks more tragic than you do, but when she takes a swig from the literal gallon of water she brought with her, like a meathead does to the gym, you know. You begin hashing out the details of your night before you realize you need to order. Despite how badly you want to order a bacon, egg, and cheese, you decide you’ve made enough poor caloric decisions over the last 72 hours and go with the sorority special: Low-fat chicken salad on a whole-wheat everything with the center scooped out. You can feel the judgment in the GDI server’s eyes and almost feel bad that this is how you make her feel every day. Sorry for partying I guess, geed. What’s your excuse?