I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again…nothing good has ever come out of my sorority’s crush party. It’s known as the biggest drinking event of the semester not only in my chapter but pretty much campus-wide, and at this one in particular bad decisions were made left and right, starting with about ten too many vanilla-vodka and alcoholic-whipped-cream shots (not as good as it sounds) before even getting on the bus. To be completely honest, the majority of us were almost if not already blacked out upon reaching the venue (which, by the way, proved MUCH too classy for our behavior. Apparently it was frowned upon that we walked in carrying open handles of Burnett’s). Not long into the night, along with all dignity and inhibitions, I had lost my dates (one of whom may or may not have been performing questionable acts with a certain other TSM columnist in a completely off-limits area, the other, who knows?). Naturally, I responded by latching onto a pretty attractive senior on the dance floor that I had never seen before.
After dancing and MO’ing the night away, we were at some point herded to the bus where we continued to MO shamelessly the whole way home, and after multiple protests of “I can’t, I have class in the morning,” he convinced me to go home with him. Mind you, this was a Friday night. I was so drunk I literally thought I had class on a Saturday. After a heavy make out sesh on his kitchen counter, we headed to the bedroom where we…promptly passed TFO. What did you think would happen? I don’t go any further than that on the first date (and we stopped to share a pizza on the way back to his apartment, so this was totally a date).
The next morning, I woke up and this boy whose name I could not remember slash probably didn’t ever know, seemed to REALLY want to cuddle, but I really, REALLY had to pee. I snuck out of bed to use the bathroom, grabbing my cell phone on the way to check the time. It was 8:30. Even though my head was pounding and he was a great big spoon, he had passed out again and I decided it’d be smart to escape before things got awkward and while it was still early enough to avoid being seen on my walk home. I grabbed a hoodie out of his closet (relax, I returned it later), shuffled around some papers on his desk to figure out his name, and left.
I made it about halfway home in stilettos, a teeny-tiny black dress, an oversized hoodie, and shoulder-length chandelier earrings before I saw some people in the distance. I got a little closer and realized it was just a few Polo-shirted tour guides in my school colors followed by a some of moms, dads, and high-schoolers. “Okay, a tour” I thought. “No big deal, I’ll just cut across the green.”
Wrong.
As soon as I turned, I saw them. EVERYWHERE. SURROUNDING ME. I hadn’t realized that it wasn’t just a normal Saturday; it was Decision Day, when all the accepted high-school seniors and their families come to campus. The marching band was marching. Our fight song rang through the air. There were megaphones and streamers. There were Police officers and crossing guards blowing whistles at every corner. Everyone was cheering and screaming. I might have imagined this, but I think confetti was falling from the sky and onto my overexposed body. Worst of all, there were hundreds upon hundreds of innocent 18-year olds holding brochures and maps with their middle-aged parents in cable-knit sweaters. And there I was, right smack in the middle of it all.
Short of teleporting, there was absolutely no way to make it to my apartment without marching through the entire parade. So…I did. I tossed my hair over my shoulder and proudly performed the stride of pride, laughing the whole way and trying my best to look every mother and father in the eye while I did so. I mean, it’s not like the tour guides were going to cover crucial topics like shacking. I was basically doing a public service and educating those freshly legal, wide-eyed freshmen about their future, while simultaneously sending their parents to an early grave.
The whole debacle proved a lot to take in before 9am, so when I reached my apartment I promptly went back to sleep until I was sober again…..like…..6 hours later. And that was the last time I ever tasted alcoholic whipped cream.
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