We don’t live in a Nicholas Sparks novel. You’re probably not going to end up with a blockbuster, story-of-the-year relationship. In fact, most of today’s love stories are going to sound little something like this…
My college participates in the trendy, liberal-artsy fad of having a January term. In theory, this is a month-long term where students can take a class that they actually enjoy. Students are encouraged to immerse themselves in a new area of academia and discover themselves in a new light. But in reality, this is a time when you either travel and get completely wasted every day or stay on campus and get completely wasted every day. Unless, of course, you’re a GDI, and you’d rather actually discover yourself on a two-week trip to Europe as you learn how to make bread.
My story begins with my first January term on campus. I was a senior, and I had traveled for every other January term. Why would you waste daddy’s money getting drunk with the same people on campus when you could do it with hot foreigners on some exotic island? Anyway, I quickly acclimated to the life of J-term. My class was only three days a week, which gave me a complete four-day weekend to fulfill my aspirations of fucking shit up. I was truly living the dream–that is, if dreams are made of cheap vodka and hot, sloppy messes. I mean, what kind of dreams do you have if they don’t include immense amounts of alcohol and short sequin dresses? Do you even go here?
One night, after declaring the theme as “dress-like-a-freshman” (AKA slut) and losing my best friend to the depths of her long-term crush’s bunk bed, I stumbled out in search for adventure. I had just broken up with a long-distance boyfriend and felt as free as a bird, because I fucking finally was. After a short blackout caused by a wicked Long Island, I found myself and a few of my sisters gathering in the neighboring frat’s presidential suite when a dreadful song started drifting through the speakers. Of course, this had to stop. I walked back to the computer controlling the music.
There he was, wearing a gray t-shirt and a pair of blue jeans. He had a smile I couldn’t ignore. “Can you change the song?” I slurred. He motioned for me to go ahead, so I drunkenly plopped right into his lap to get a better look. Then, I blacked out. The next thing I remembered was being on the porch of his house, and he asked if I wanted him to walk me home.
We got to my room after passing the aftermath of some awkward don’t-tell-anyone-you-saw-this hookups. Shortly after reaching the bed, we were both in our birthday suits and unable to contain ourselves. What came later was more important, though. We talked–like, really talked. Not only did this frat star look amazing, he could also hold an educated conversation, which is a hard combination to find.
Needless to say, the rest of my J-term went pretty much the same way. We ended up taking a poetry class together, going Facebook official this past summer, and eventually living together in the postgrad world. A lot of people outside of Greek life have this idea that we are all idiots fucking around and boozing all the time. Well, we do that, but we don’t need to restrict ourselves to find love. I encourage all of you to go out into the frat house next door and find whatever life has waiting for you.