the search for a quintessential college experience
Last night, a friend of mine said he was going out with several of his friends and asked me if I wanted to come. I accepted, figuring that frosh week was the best time to cut loose & live a little. At 10:00, we headed over to Richardson Auditorium for Tiger’s Roar, an acapella performance. It ended at midnight, after which we picked up fruit smoothies and tacos from the food trucks outside. Then, we threaded our way to Prospect Street (aka the Street), which is where all the eating clubs/parties are located, and ended up in the backyard of Quadrangle. Bouncers were checking student IDs before letting people in. People were circling up in friend groups and kind of swaying to the beat. The music was a little too loud. It was…I don’t know. Kind of what you see in movies but also anticlimactic. I headed to the back to get a drink. It took a while; I got the quintessential red Solo cup filled with a frothing, watered-down beer that tasted half-decent—kind of like craft beer. I drank at a decent pace hoping to loosen up but it didn’t really work? Maybe marginally, but I was still clear-headed enough to be like: do I really want to pump my arms in the air? People were making out and a few were grinding; one of the guys from the group we came with looked pretty drunk after three or four cups of alcohol. My friend seemed disengaged the entire time, almost absent-minded; he checked his watch several times since we were planning on leaving at 1:00. Sure enough, when the time came, he and I tossed our almost-empty cups onto a windowsill and headed back while the others moved onto Colonial. I’d worn a crop top and shorts with only a blouse to cover up and it was freezing. We asked each other if we’d do it again. Consensus—it wasn’t great. We did laugh a lot; I told him about my U-Store excursion to get the Cliff bar and my failed jaywalking experience in NYC, but I think that’s pretty typical of us and not really any sign of intoxication. Back at my res college, he showed me his FB search history; he’d searched for someone from our pre-orientation group, which got a laugh out of both of us. I refused to reveal mine in turn bc, well, my FB stalking habits are mortifying. He ended up leaving around 2:00. Not a bad night all in all. Just numbing. Is that what partying is—a kind of self-induced anesthesia?