This week, I’m finding it hard to give out a Worst Week Ever award. Perhaps, my well of wit has run dry. Or maybe it’s because everyone is having such a good time right now. A wave of contentment has washed over Wesleyan and I attribute it to two major events: Halloween and Senior Cocktails.
First off, I love Halloween. To quote a fellow student, it’s “the bitchinest time of the year.” Think about it: On what other holiday is it perfectly acceptable to get drunk while looking like a complete fool? Perhaps there are a couple of obscure celebrations, but Halloween is the quintessential day of silliness. It’s the one day where extravagance meets decency and flips it the bird. On this, the unholiest of days, you can marvel as perennial bookworms and creatine-filled athletes transform into superheroes and inanimate objects. It’s a most glorious event, and anyone who says Halloween is for toddlers probably got beaten up as a kid for wearing a crappy costume (and deserved it—those uncreative losers).
I also love Senior Cocktails. It marks a return to a simpler, more hedonistic time when horrible mistakes don’t lead to embarrassing consequences. It’s like freshman year all over again. And ah, the power this event holds over the senior class. People have skipped work, blown off midterms and obliterated relationships for the chance to get completely wasted and hook up with that one person he/she has secretly eyed for four years. And by one person, I really mean twelve people. Some people go there with a handwritten checklist; others come with an itemized flowchart and Venn diagrams. And it’s completely acceptable. What’s to hate about going to a venue populated only with members of your class, stocked with the finest of alcohols (okay, “finest of alcohols” is a bit of a stretch), and getting down on the dance floor?
Thus a combination of these two events spells one word—fun! And man oh man did I bust a gut laughing at the plethora of costumes I saw. There were iPods and slutty police officers, Hungry Hungry Hippos and slutty nurses, Batmen and slutty maids, preachers and slutty animals. Forget the laundry list, let’s just say there were a lot of slutty Fill-In-The-Blanks running about. Instead of calling out “Trick or Treat,” perhaps we should start yelling “T or A.” I must admit, the visual smorgasbord was amazing, but I could have done without the PDA overkill. I saw more tonsil hockey at cocktails than Steve Rubell (and you could win an extra special prize if you can identify this reference). If you didn’t have an excellent time, that’s probably because you were passed out in a pile of coats. If you had an excellent time, there’s a lot more where that came from.
All right, I am a Senior Class Officer. And yes, I am shamelessly promoting myself but I think I deserve it considering the effort I put in (and I guess those other officers kind of helped too). It’s always beautiful to give birth to a party, watch it grow, and nurse it to a sybaritic goodness. When I saw the bar packed with oddly-dressed lushes, my eyes got all dewy. When I got five different drinks spilled on me, I beamed with pride. And when I heard people puking in a corner, I squealed with delight—also disgust, but it was mostly delight.
I want to say that non-seniors missed out, but they haven’t really. I visited some costumed parties on Friday and Saturday and the underclassmen have gotten into the spirit of costumed idiocy almost as much as the seniors did. And for once, I was able to stomach the frosh roaming about. Perhaps it’s the fact that for once there wasn’t a torrential downpour or maybe it was the sheer determination, but people were out in full force, clogging streets and wandering about from house to house. Even Mother Nature has been kind. Cold winds notwithstanding, the weather was pretty tolerable lately. I could have sworn I saw the sun peek its head through the clouds this weekend, and it was a refreshing change of pace.
The most likely candidates for the award are the Walk of Shamers, because it was so easy to spot you guys last weekend. At least on other party nights, you can use the flat of your hand to iron out the wrinkles in your party attire and pretend you’re walking to lunch. But when you’re seen walking out of a house at ten in the morning in a disheveled neon green jumpsuit and bug-eyes, you are so busted. I’m used to watching WOSers sprint home with their eyes locked to the sidewalk, but not this weekend. I saw many with heads held high—or at least without an umbrella obscuring their faces. Frankly, I’d feel good too, knowing I could get laid dressed as a box of detergent. And I can’t fault anyone for checking another person off their hook-up list.
Okay so a lot of people are having a pretty good week—including the walk of shamers. And even I have nothing to gripe about. I’m afraid you’ve caught me at a good time of the month; I blame it on all the Lifetime movies and the estrogen I’ve been consuming. Don’t worry; I’ll make up for this by being extra mean next time. And remember that reference-identifying sweepstakes; the lucky winner will receive an X-rated director’s cut version of this article, complete with all the gossip you know you want to read about. Excelsior!
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