After making the rounds of this year's Bid Night festivities, I am convinced that the biggest rivalry on Grounds is decidedly absent of testosterone.
Now guys, don't get me wrong; I know that things like frats and football are very important to you fellows, and occasionally disputes over such can bring your blood to a boil, resulting in all varieties of extremely manly fighting (although girl fights tend to be much more creative -- more on that in a sec). As I have realized, however, these skirmishes among men can't hold a candle to the war I like to refer to as first-year girls vs. second-year women (yes, that is a nod to a certain "Sex and the City" episode title -- since the forgiveness clause got voted down, I am being extra careful).
As a first year, I didn't realize that there was a war at all. Perhaps this was because I was too busy pushing my way to the front of beer lines, eating copious (a euphemism for ungodly) amounts of ice milk and generally doing things with the utmost sense of entitlement. My friends and I admittedly had a "we're out of high school and are the greatest thing to hit the University since streaking" complex. If we went to a frat and didn't like the music, we felt it encumbent upon ourselves to change it by any means necessary.
Naturally, this made us quite a well-loved group. I recall hordes of people glaring at me as I snuck into some desolate closet and put on "Get Low" for the 67th time that hour because it was "my song." I now know that those smoldering eyes of disdain belonged to second-year women. And I now relate to them.
As in any war, both sides have their secret weapons. First-year girls have youth, enthusiasm and are (until about Winter Break) about fifteen pounds lighter than your average second-year woman. I actually sort of like my fifteen pounds -- it helps me get what I like to refer to as "inside hip positioning" in beer lines. Sure, most first-year girls look better than me in Seven jeans, but try to get by me in a beer line, and my hip-check will leave you wishing you had gone back for seconds at "Center Stage."
In addition to being trained in the art of the hip-check, second-year women also have cars, know where McLeod Hall is (in the nursing school -- take that) and (sometimes) get to control their own central heating.
We also are skilled in the art of deciding where to post up on the dance floor. Get too close to the door, spend all night dodging people carrying full cups of God knows what. Get too close to the light-deficient corner by the speaker, enjoy the even sorrier fate of getting trapped in the booty vault and inadvertently grinding with someone who can only be described as a "creeper."
But undoubtedly, the biggest bone of contention among first-year girls and second-year women are the men. And this is where the creative fighting that I mentioned earlier comes into play. Speaking from the point of view of a second-year woman, there is nothing worse than seeing your man, someone you perceive as your man, or -- and this is possibly the worst -- your ex-man macking on some first-year girl.
Now, once we second years go home and become somewhat rational humans again, we realize that it probably wasn't your fault -- that older guys are drawn like big, retarded moths to your flame of youth.
Unfortunately, this realization hits us only once we are home. When we are caught up in the moment and watching our stud get your digits (or at least that's what it looks like he's doing, damn him), we tend to morph into ruffle skirt-clad Incredible Hulks. Such was the case when a friend of mine hurled a full Solo cup of beer at a first-year girl. Granted, my friend meant to hit the guy in question, but emotions ran high and her aim was a smidge off, so she ended up dousing the kid -- on the first party night of her young college career. It was an undeniably ugly scene that ended with a lot of hot tears, recriminations and the demise of what I remember as a very cute Banana Republic top.
It is clear that there is some work to do in the matter of first-year/second-year female relations. I am hoping this column will lead to the beginning of a better understanding and some semblance of harmony between these two factions (and you probably thought my column was just a lame attempt at self-promotion -- ha!). In fact, I am willing to bury the hatchet-- or flat iron as the case may be -- and begin to do my part as the goodwill ambassador of all second-year women. If any first year ever needs an escort to McLeod, count me in. If you ever need someone to pull you out of the booty vault, I'm quite the expert on escape tactics. In fact, I wouldn't even mind if y'all had a couple more servings of ice milk-- - my treat. After all, Seven jeans are fleeting, but hip-checking skills will serve you well for a lifetime.
Erin can be reached at gaetz@cavalierdaily.com.
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