There was a time in the not-so-distant past (read: five days ago) when my weekend wish list consisted of nothing more than logging some quality hours at an ultra-fratastic gathering on Rugby Road or surrounding areas. I considered the chance to don scandalous (we're talking scandalous in the Ralph Lauren sense here, don't get too excited) clothes and dance the night away with fellow party-goers not simply another nighttime alternative, but a privilege.
Minor inconveniences were not seen as detractions to the experience, but rather inspiring challenges. The brother at the door needs to see my student I.D.? No problem! I'm sure it'll just be a second to get it out of the back pocket of the jeans I had to lie flat on my bed to get into (if you have the jaws of life on hand). I know as a certainty that the Solo cup I'm using to get beer has already been drunk out of, but is this really a concern? Hell no! I'm sure the person who drank out of it before I did was a cleanly individual who absolutely did not have mono or herpes. A rather interesting character who has spent most of the night bobbing creepily in the corner of the dance floor has picked me as his lucky lady and seems to have his hands glued to my bathing suit areas. Problem? I think not! I'm sure that under his unnaturally heavy perspiration and attempts at out-rapping Ludacris in my ear, he has a heart of gold!
I wish I could say that I still have the same passion in my heart for frat parties as was once there, but alas, times and feelings change. Logic says I should love them now, as a third year, more than ever. Unlike first year, I now legitimately know gentlemen in frats and don't have to answer the requisite, "Who do you know?" at the door with "Ummm ... John? Mike? There's a Mike who is a brother, right? Wait, which frat is this?"
I am also far more familiar with the protocol of fratting, which means I no longer arrive in a group of 16 at 10 p.m. and attempt to "start the party." I sort of liken my third-year frat party situation to that of the middle-aged man who has finally saved up the money to buy the Mercedes convertible (SLK230 if you're listening, Mom and Dad) -- but is no longer young enough to look and feel right driving it.
As I recently have realized, being a grizzled upperclassman party veteran has led me to develop certain likes and dislikes in regards to social situations. I like conversation -- something that is difficult for me at frat parties, perhaps because I don't possess the rhythm required to talk strategically on the off-beats of dance music. This really is quite a talent, and if you have it, hats off to you, my friend.
I dislike being pushed. This is perhaps my biggest problem with attending frat parties, as I tend to get rather belligerent when I believe I have, intentionally or unintentionally, been run into. I shout and make borderline obscene gestures. I push back. Sometimes, I throw 'bows. I recognized this as a genuine issue this past weekend when I ended up forcibly shoving a friend of mine who was just trying to dance up to me as a way of saying hello (apparently, that kind of thing is common in the New England city she hails from). I was seconds away from hitting her with my lethal "jab, cross, hook, Hindu skip-kick" combo, the poor girl. I believe she'll be a little more wary of approaching me in this manner at future parties.
I like, and this is perhaps the most important issue, guys my own age. With the exception of the fine frat brothers milling around, there are not going to be a whole lot of guys who have left teenage-hood behind at frat gatherings. There is nothing worse than really hitting it off with a nice young man and hearing him utter the dreaded words, "So ... do you want to come back to my dorm?" It's not so much the actual age difference that concerns me, it's the fact that I couldn't look myself in the mirror if I had to do the walk of shame back from dorms. I'm not denying that it would make a great story -- I would just rather it not be my story.
Make no mistake, I still love all the boys with the Greek letters. Frat parties have provided me with some of the most memorable moments (and "my friend remembered and told me the next day" and "I wish I could forget about that" moments) of my college career, and for this, I am certainly grateful. In fact, it's almost comforting that the old group is starting to step aside and a new generation of frat-goers (who won't mind lack of conversation and lots of pushing as long as the keg isn't tapped) will get to experience all the magic we once did. I wish them the best, but will leave you with a word to the wise. Don't dance with the creeper bobbing in the corner -- you will most certainly get both mono and herpes. Happy fratting -- I'll probably see you there.
Erin's column runs bi-weekly on Mondays. She can be reached at gaetz@cavalierdaily.com.
Read More
It’s okay not to be okay
By Mai Hukuoka | 3 days agoWhether talking to a friend, a loved one or a professional, it is so necessary, and human, to need more than you can provide for yourself.
Taking a break at Tangerines Kitchen
By Charley Thomas | 5 days agoWhat the restaurant somewhat lacks in ambiance, it compensates for in tasty dishes and prompt service.
Virginia Policy Lab — a hub for student-led policy action
By Katherine Haden | December 9, 2024Students propose their own projects and collaborate with other members to research their issues of interest, brainstorm solutions and write policy proposals.
