I stood in the mirror next to my roommate Kristen staring at my hot pink toga. I had barely purchased enough fabric to cover myself. You couldn’t see under-butt, but you kept staring, because you thought there could be a slip-up at any moment. It was perfect.
Jessa walked in and adjusted Kristen’s knee-length replica of an actual toga, then gave me the up-and-down. “Michelle, that’s really short. Are you sure you want to wear that?” I had never been more sure of anything in my life.
Kristen sighed. I could tell she was upset. And why wouldn’t she be? She was wearing a fucking mumu to a frat party. She didn’t want to emulate an ACTUAL Greek God, but it was too late to make any changes to her outfit. Jessa would get offended, and honestly, we didn’t have time for it. She kept us on a very strict schedule for reasons I’ll never understand.
Jessa is the “mom” of our group, which is the nice, self-appointed way of saying she’s the controlling buzz kill who has to keep tabs on everyone. She’s the one who makes sure no one gets too drunk. She’s the one who tells you your tits are out, as if you selected that dress for any other reason. She’s the one who asks “Are you sure you want to go home with him?” as you’re making out with some guy aggressively on the dance floor.
People claim they’d be “lost” without their group mom. They’d end up dead in a ditch somewhere covered in vomit if it weren’t for the group mom directing them home. They’d fail out of school if it weren’t for their group mom reminding them relentlessly that they had an exam the next day. They’d probably be pregnant and have like, twelve different strains of HPV if there group mom wasn’t regularly cockblocking them.
Guess what. I call bullshit. You are a grown ass woman, and you don’t need some other girl who’s two months older than you telling you what to do. If you want to flash your tits, and make out with a freshman, and stay out until 5 in the morning, then skip all your classes the next day, that is your prerogative. You don’t need your friend to wake you up, and you certainly don’t need to explain yourself to anyone when you sleep in. And yes, it’s nice that someone is there to take care of you when you need it, but most of the time? Most of the time you don’t. Most of the time, even in your drunken stupor, you’ll get home just fine. All the “mom” is doing successfully is embarrassing you in front of the guy you’re trying to bone.
If you really “couldn’t survive” without a group mom, you shouldn’t be in college. This is your time to make your own mistakes and learn from them. A time to fully realize that if you fail a test, that’s on you, and a time to make the decision to give a shit on your own. It’s a time — perhaps the only time in your whole life — where you truly get to do whatever the fuck you want without having to explain yourself to anybody. And anyone who tries to take that away from you isn’t a “necessary” part of your friend group.
Besides, if frat guys don’t need a “mom” making sure they continue to be semi-functional members of society, you certainly don’t either..