In case you haven't noticed why so many first-year girls are looking lost and self-conscious in the Rugby/Madison/Chancellor area in the past few days, it's because sorority rush has descended upon us. Or, if you'd like to use the appropriate euphemism, call it "Formal Recruitment." We luckily do not attend one of those schools where the Greek system dominates everything and the wrong sorority bid can mean social or even literal suicide. The process, however, is still brutal, with hours of small talk, high heels and waiting outside in the freezing cold while frat boys throw water balloons and powdered donuts.
Luckily, I'm spending this week as a recruitment counselor, so I shepherd the girls around in sweats and pretend to know things instead of participating in the estrogen-fueled mania indoors. My optimal situation, however, has had the not-so-pleasant side effect of causing me to recall my own traumatic rush experience from the perspective of an awkward first-year.
By my last semester in college I can look back at my fourth-grade overalls with nostalgia, junior-high mean girls with laughter and high school crushes with only a hint of embarrassment. I am, however, convinced that the day I embarked on rush will live on in infamy and haunt me forever.
It was a blustery day in January 2005, and my moronic recruitment counselor had told my group to wear tennis shoes because of the long, hard walk to the sorority houses. Despite being from the South, I was beyond clueless about rush and unfortunately followed her advice. Then, instead of spending my break shopping and creating cute outfits, the one skill that I actually have, I slacked off and came back to school totally unprepared in the apparel department. I then made the brilliant decision to pair my New Balances with a knee-length puff coat and a sweater with an Abercrombie moose on it. A couple other girls on my hall followed our counselor's unforgivable advice, so it was too late to change when I finally realized just how out of place my clothing was.
The horror of entering 10 sorority houses looking like a 16-year-old from the 'burbs while everyone else marched in confidently wearing high heels and chic jackets that in no way resemble slaughtered orca whales still haunts me. In fact, this disaster has been pretty much unmatched in my life despite the fact that I have a natural propensity to make a fool of myself. Nevertheless, for a girl who wanted to be the editor of Vogue, you can only imagine how extensive my psychotherapy bills will be.
Although I still cringe and possibly shed a small tear when I imagine how foolish my fashion faux pas was, my woeful tale does illustrate one small argument against critics of the Greek system. No matter how superficial one might think sororities or sorority rush is, it can't be that bad, because at least one sorority looked past my fashion emergency and let me through the golden doors for round two.
My mother tells me that this kind of negative experience will make me a more empathetic human being toward those who suffer -- or at the very least make me stop laughing out loud at Crocs & socks combos. Alas, this has not proven to be the case. I do, however, think twice when I'm about to make a mental judgment about someone's fashion choices, because it takes some of us a little bit longer to get out of that awkward stage than others.
So if you drive by girls in wobbly heels wandering down Rugby Road, try to yell something nice to boost their self-esteem instead of throwing messy baked goods, because they're probably going to need it.
For example, some good ideas include "Angelina Jolie has nothing on you," "I'll give you a tip and you don't even need to strip," or "On the bright side, you're not wearing running shoes." If you see someone wearing a really terrible outfit, you can always send her my way. I might even give her the rush makeover discount.
Alex's column runs biweekly Thursdays. She can be reached at jospin@cavalierdaily.com.
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