During my junior year, I had the privilege of serving the much-hated position of risk manager. If being on E-board wasn’t enough, the purpose of my chapter’s risk chair is to deal with everyone’s shit. Sisters fighting over the same formal date? Go work it out with risk. Happen to be a new active who got too wasted and acted like a slut in front of our favorite fraternity? Go hang out with risk, because that standards letter is coming and you will cry. I was the girl at the party holding a rolodex of sisters’ information and blood types just in case they hit the jungle juice too hard and landed themselves in the ER for the night. If having me around made my sisters feel safe, then that’s awesome. But for me, it was just a series of eye rolls and extra shots of espresso to stay awake after nights of taking care of other people’s messes.
At first, it was fine. I was honored that my sisters voted me in. It was okay to watch over the new members on Bid Night. It was peachy to run to a sister’s room when she thought life was over after a breakup. Then it became insane. These girls were either too depressed to function or too drunk and slutty to get it together long enough to get standards off their backs. It came to the point where I was basically a professor held up in my room, holding office hours so I could juggle my time between telling a sister her stupid boyfriend wasn’t worth it and helping the rest of them reevaluate their lives before they were kicked out. It was a nightmare — and that was only my first term.
My breaking point came when a sister was injured in ultimate frisbee. Yes, the embarrassing hippie “sport” best played by kids on the green (both the location and the drug). Why we had that event, I’ll never know, but we were the undefeated Greek Week champions five years running, so naturally, we couldn’t just blow it off. We had to participate. So there I was, late (as always) to the ultimate frisbee game. I had just slipped on my jersey when my phone rang. “Get to the Great Lawn immediately” was all I heard. I hadn’t run that fast after a phone call since I was a pledge. I got there with my creepy rolodex and was ready to know what the hell could have possibly gone wrong at ultimate fucking frisbee. There was a girl several pledge classes younger than I was lying on the ground crying, and our president and vice president were nowhere to be found. So, I took our fat Greek adviser to the side and told her I’d take it from here. After seven annoying hours in the hospital and a broken leg later, I was finally in my bed. I never knew girls could be so fucking annoying.
Come fall, I was completely checked out. Fall down the stairs at the frat house? I’m sure a brother will pick you up. Wanna get high in the garage with a bunch of random guys? Call me first. Naturally, when my best friend decided she wanted to run for risk, I almost smacked her in the face. I told her if she wanted to hate everything about our chapter, our sisters, and life in general, then go for it. But if she wanted a life — and to continue her legacy of being a “you would” girl — then she should take the world’s best advice: always fly under the radar.
Moral of the story? Be nice to your risk managers. Their boyfriends break up with them, too, and they want to get trashed at mixers, so cut them some slack. Put your wine in your glass, not your mouth, and deal with it yourself..