Hello Brunonians! I’m Luna Lovebad and I’m here to impart wisdom on how not to be a freshman. Every week, I’ll be sharing some of my experiences with you: some posts will be painfully embarrassing, others heartfelt and sincere—but they’re all for your enjoyment. Each week, read along as I describe my bewilderment, happiness, and awe during my tumultuous and hopefully memorable first year at Brown.
It’s 10:30 on a Sunday morning and I’m walking along Thayer in the same clothes I wore last night. Most people would describe this simple meandering as the Walk of Shame. I was privileged to experience this event, considered a rite of passage in most colleges, my first weekend at Brown. The late morning air was chilly on my shoulders (I rejected my suitor’s oh so gallant offer to wear his sweatshirt) and I had to walk home with a map pulled up on my iPhone. With each step I took, I fell deeper into my thoughts. How did I get here? What am I doing?
My night started 12 hours earlier on the porch of my dorm’s favorite frat. I saw—let’s call him “the Elusive Jew”—from across the sticky, beer-spattered lawn. I broke out the “I’m shy and approachable” glance and, soon enough, I was partaking in a casual, albeit slightly boring conversation about random things I didn’t really care about. Usually a reserved girl, I was not planning to embark on such a scandalous sexcapade, but I soon realized he was reserving a place in his single room for me. I figured “YOLO” and I knew he was thinking “L’Chaim.”
As I entered his room, I became aware of my spontaneity, and in an uncharacteristic moment, I actually felt excited. Here I was, a naïve little freshman girl about to hook up with a hunky upperclassmen. I knew my high school friends would be jealous and I was eager to brag about my out-of-my-league conquest. I may not be Jewish, but I was about to enjoy a kosher meal.
Fast forward a few hours. I’m laying in my beau’s bed, fully-clothed, thank you very much. I’m freezing and this dude’s snoring so loudly. Playing Words With Friends at 3 in the morning is not exactly my idea of a good time. I was contemplating an escape route but he had me in a death grip, so I was left to hugging myself in a desperate attempt for warmth. Pitiful? Slightly.
In short, the Walk of Shame is not for everyone and I’ve realized it’s definitely not for me. I like the warmth of my own bed which, unlike some beds, has a comforter. I’m not perfect and, like most people, I make mistakes. Last Saturday night was one of them. Will I make this mistake again in the next four years? Probably. But at least you’ll be lucky enough to read about it.
Until then, my only advice is this: Gents, if you invite a lady to spend the night, please do her the honor of investing in some blankets.