Last weekend, as I was perusing Facebook, I came across an invitation for yet another Brown party. To my delight, this party featured three of my favorite things: Tom Cruise, costumes, and boys dressing up, in costume, like Tom Cruise. Sign me up, I thought, and I quickly pressed “Join Event.”
Over the course of the week, my friend and I constructed the perfect outfits for this party. We became regulars at the Army/Navy Store, and I spent $60 in Urban Outfitters on a pair of new jeans. Ridiculous? Definitely. But you didn’t see my butt: By the time Saturday night had arrived, we had created the ultimate Top Gun personas. We had straightened our hair, applied our makeup, and perfectly placed our new aviators atop our heads. She was Maverick and I was Goose, and we were ready to take flight into “the target-rich” environment of memorable frat parties, our dog-tag necklaces hanging loosely around our necks. Our mission was to look like sex; mission was accomplished.
We finally made our way to Wriston and, much to our chagrin, there was a small—but still large enough to be frustrating—crowd standing outside of the frat. I was close enough to see the frat bros standing nonchalantly on their porch, decked out in pilot jumpsuits, hair gelled to perfection. My one friend took to using her body in an attempt to get in, but her boobs did nothing to entrance the stoic pilot at the door. Even my tried-and-true “shy and approachable” glance wasn’t working. So, my friends and I were left to wait outside amongst a sea of leather jackets, tipsiness slowly turning into sobriety.
Soon excitement turned to impatience, and we left Wriston with the intent of coming back in a little while. Often, on weekends, I feel like I’m 10 steps behind the rest of the student body. When my friends and I had finally made it to the soccer house, the party had been busted. We contemplated stealing a keg until we realized none of us actually knew how to tap a keg. With no other plans in the foreseeable future, it was time to head back to Wriston.
Nothing had changed. The crowd was still there but now, the Mavericks and Vipers of the frat house looked tired and fed-up. I whispered, “Is this your idea of fun, Mav?” to my friend, and she replied, “Show me the way home, honey.” As we walked home, I was disappointed. No beer had stained my jacket, no one got to see my ass-tastic pants, and none of the pilots sang “You’ve Lost That Loving Feeling” to me.
Facebook parties, I’m realizing, come with their own set of pitfalls. To a freshman, they sound glamorous and exciting, but there was nothing enjoyable about waiting outside all night. Six-hundred RSVPs for a frat that can only fit a hundred people? It’s like the fucking Hunger Games out there, and the odds were not in our favor. My goal for next weekend is to find the party that everyone’s not talking about. I’m trying something different, and isn’t that what college is all about?