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.