It was a Friday night and I was fresh off an emotional breakup with a long-term boyfriend, but what did I care? I had been invited to go to a fraternity formal. You know what that means? FREE ALCOHOL. Exactly what I needed since I ran out of ice cream and had just finished watching Gossip Girl on Netflix for the third time this year.
There’s nothing quite like a fraternity formal. It’s the only time it’s acceptable to get all dressed up with your girlfriends and have one (or fifteen) too many drinks. It started with my best friend and I grabbing some dinner at a Mexican restaurant and flirting with the waiters to get free drinks. Although I can honestly say I didn’t understand a word they were saying, it worked, and we were three jumbo margaritas deep before showing up to Delta Chi.
If you didn’t know, three margaritas is the perfect amount of alcohol to take fake candid’s with your sorority sisters before heading out to the formal. I was feeling good. Looking better. I had the cutest Instagram posts that were sure to make my ex do a double take and hit the double tap.
We get to formal and I immediately take over the DJ booth — it is, after all, my calling. I was dancing, singing, making sure everyone else around me was having as much fun as I was. Jack and coke in hand, heels already off, I was feeling it.
10:00 a.m. Saturday morning. I wake up, makeup smeared down my face, my hair looking like the guy from LMFAO’s afro and different underwear on. This cannot be good.
Next step, check my phone. Certainly Snapchat has some of my memories or I must have texts to someone. There was nothing. So I walk downstairs to our kitchen where my sisters all migrate to tell our “last night” stories. I walk in and everyone stops talking and just looks at me. In the silence, I realized that something tragic must have happened to me last night, and boy, was I right.
“Morgan, sit down,” one of my sisters said, grinning ear to ear. “What do you remember?”
Well, nothing. I think that’s pretty obvious by my outward appearance. It was then I learned of my disastrous night.
I peed on my formal date.
Through the tears of laughter and tears of pure embarrassment, my friends gave me the play by play of what I did, who witnessed it, and how catastrophic it was.
Basically, I passed out on a table at formal. That’s okay with me, I must have been really tired from being the life of the party. From there, my date threw me over his shoulder and carried me like a sack of potatoes for five blocks. My hero. We got home and as we walked through the door, one of two things must have happened. I either got really excited to be home, or the muscles in my bladder just stopped working, because as I was still hanging there with my butt in his face, I peed. I peed all down his shirt and all over him. WOW, that sucks for me. And him. But mostly for me.
My friends carried me into the bathroom where I simultaneously puked and peed until there were no liquids left inside of my body. When I came out of the bathroom a solid twenty minutes later, my date was still sitting in my kitchen, covered in my pee. I asked him why he didn’t go home and he said he wanted to make sure I was alright, and to give me his number so I could text him tomorrow.
What a gentleman. I just peed on him and he’s still going to be that nice to me? Maybe chivalry isn’t dead after all.
All that being said, I never texted him. He’s not my type..
Image via Shutterstock
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