Knowing it was one of our last chances to be social this semester, my friends and I decided to go out for one final hurrah last week.
After performing the hour’s worth of rituals associated with getting ready to go out, we left our hall. On our way down, we were informed there would be a bus arriving at the AFC in two minutes. We then ran like crazy to catch it — for the record, I consider any running that doesn’t involve life-threatening situations “crazy.”
Ten minutes later — thanks TransLoc! — we were making our way up the stairs onto a bus crowded with other first-years. The bus to Rugby is always a spectacle. It is a rainbow explosion of crop-tops and khakis, sparkles and Sperrys, girls deciding how high to hitch up their skirts and guys deciding how many buttons to leave open. There is the fourth-year trying to get back to her apartment, rolling her eyes and wondering if she could ever have been this obnoxious three years ago. And there’s me, trying to sneak a selfie with the person dressed like Peter Pan. Everyone was buzzing loudly in anticipation of the wonderful, amazing, life-changing night about to begin.
Finally, the bus arrived at our stop, and we made our exit. Everyone traveled as a pack down Rugby, eyes peeled for a house that looked bumpin’. We eventually came across a house with people crowded around the front. We watched the usual banter unfold: “If you’re not on the list, you’re not getting in. There’s just no way. Leave now. Even if you know a brother, if you’re not on the list you need to leave. You’re not getting in.”
We were not on the list. We did not even know what house it was, let alone any of the brothers. Naturally, we proceeded to walk up to the couch. With some sass and a brief examination of our “ratio,” we were in.
What we found inside was disappointing, to say the least. There was no music, no dancing — just people stumbling around talking in slurred sentences which only made sense to each other. As I tried to find some air I could potentially breathe, I was pleasantly poked in the eye. With that, my friends and I decided our raging night had come to an end — at 11:30 p.m.
Freezing and completely unwilling to make the trek back to the dorms, we huddled in front of the bus stop. Within minutes, the lights of angels emerged from the darkness. Needless to say, we were unhealthily enthused by the sight of the Inner Loop — though, as we were to discover, justly so, because the music on the bus was killing it. Without shame, we had our dance party right there on the bus. To commemorate the occasion, I busted out my personal best moves: the shopping cart and the cabbage patch. Some joined in and others stared, but ultimately we were happy the night held some form of redemption.
When we finally ended up back at dorms, we didn’t want the party that had just started to end. So we didn’t let it. We claimed the lounge, hooked a laptop up to the television and began blasting our own dance jams. We danced however we wanted, without fear of judgment. Some went above and beyond, singing and rapping the words to every song. I politely mouthed “watermelon” over and over again because I am simply not that talented.
Finally, when we were too tired to continue, we all sat and just listened to the music, which had now become a compilation of our childhood favorites — only to have one friend return and mention an app on Spotify that shows karaoke versions of lyrics. Game changer.
From there, it was loud, out-of-tune covers of a weird compilation of Disney hits, Beyonce, ‘90s pop music and those gems from middle school like “Kiss Me Thru The Phone” by the very talented Soulja Boy Tell ‘Em. We sang until we literally could not sing anymore. My voice is still slightly raspy.
All who know me well know I am hardly the sappy type. I will now break that rule for exactly one sentence: Through all of the adventures I have had and will have in college, the simple experience of having a spontaneous dance/karaoke party will always be one of my fondest memories. So if you’re ever really in the mood to sing “Bartender” by T-Pain or “I’ll Make a Man Out of You” from “Mulan,” I’m your girl.
Sumedha’s column runs biweekly Tuesdays. She can be reached at s.deshmukh@cavalierdaily.com.
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