The first week of classes is coming up soon. It’s dubbed “syllabus week,” because the teachers spend the majority of the class passing out the syllabi and going over all of the details in an insulting attempt to clarify every last aspect of the course, as if you aren’t a college student who is fully capable of reading. However, when you hear the term “syllabus week,” you don’t imagine sitting at a desk flipping through pages of rules and regulations. You picture crowded fraternity basements with mind-numbing subs, or clinging to a mixed drink in your favorite college bar, surrounded by your closest friends (and about 100 other strangers).
Syllabus week is the perfect party week, for many reasons. The most obvious is that it’s the least busy you’ll ever be each semester, as most teachers don’t start passing out legitimate work until at least the week after. Unless you have a truly cruel professor, you’ll likely be assigned nothing more than some light reading, that you will of course ignore to attend your neighbor’s day rager to celebrate your lack of responsibilities with jello shots and shitty house music.
But there’s another reason you love syllabus week. A reason you might not consciously realize.
For a lot of schools, syllabus week takes place immediately after rush. As you probably realize, recruitment is tough for both PNMs and actives. The days are long, the schedules are chaotic, and the headaches are inevitable. You have to constantly be exuding a crazy amount of energy that should never be expected from any normal human being. You have way too many things to remember, even more places to be, and you have to look picture perfect the entire time. The worst part, however, is that you are not allowed male interaction the entire time.
That’s right. You spend a week without boys, which is only made worse by the fact that you’re surrounded by an ungodly amount of estrogen. The constant chattering, shady moves, and occasional cat fights are enough to send you to the loony bin. But the fact that you aren’t allowed/don’t have enough energy to sneak into the bed of your favorite guy when the day is over? That’s borderline torture.
I imagine things are even worse for the guys, because they spend the week taunted by scores of innocent freshman who still have their gym class physique and a closet full of sundresses to wear day after day. It can’t be easy for them to watch from their lawns and balconies as fresh meat walks by their house, sporting fresh tans and high heels. By the end of the week, I would think that they’re just as ready for the whole thing to be over as we are. While we’re ready to greet our new freshmen pledge class, they’re ready to entice them into their parties with the promise of free jungle juice and that classic fraternity charm that you and I are now smart enough to see right through.
In short, everyone is ready for not just boozing, but banging. Sure, you missed alcohol while you were busy rating PNMs and carrying on pointless conversations. But you know what you missed even more? James. Or Brad. Or Michael. Or whoever it is that you used to send the classic “U up?” text to when the night was over and you were pissed about the fact that you wound up alone.
Syllabus week is your week to go nuts and let out all the sexual frustration that piled on as you spent your days wearing knee-length dresses, conservative Panhellenic tees, and matching sandals. It’s your time to prove to the world and yourself that you’re not the innocent little princess who greeted freshmen with a Martha Stewart smile and a wave of your perfectly manicured fingers. It’s your perfect opportunity to release the Miley inside of you and get your fix of male attention before classes get stressful and the work load gets heavy. Most importantly, it’s your time to lack responsibility and experience what’s out there, after a week of nonstop order and routine that just really wasn’t your style.
So go crazy. Grab your best friend and hit the frats. Head to a bar way too early, and stay way too late. Wear those heels you’ve been dying to flaunt, and hit that keg like the champ that you are. Booty call that guy you’ve been dying to rip into like a deranged lioness, and for God’s sake, make this year’s syllabus week count. .