Oh hey, stranger. That's a lot of my face you've got there.
Now don't get me wrong; I'll drink up any form of attention I get like it's fresh horchata on a warm August day. My professor got the first letter of my name right? Texting mom about it. Cat calls? I'm blushing. But I figure I need to draw a line somewhere. Like maybe I should learn your name before immersing myself in a waterfall of your sweat and saliva. That being said, it's just a suggestion. You know what? To hell with it. This is FALL BALL.
If there's one important lesson I've learned so far during my time at Tufts, it's that at Fall Ball it just doesn't matter. It doesn't matter that you're a freshman and he's a senior. It doesn't matter that you've been dancing with the same girl for four songs now and you still don't know what her face looks like. It doesn't matter that you've never been so sweaty in your life and he's in a morphsuit. Fall Ball means spending hours painting your nails and getting all gussied-up, and then promptly throwing all your standards out Gantcher's windows.
Maybe you upperclassmen have spent enough nights on Pro Row to be unfazed by all the flashing lights and gyrating bodies. For me, it was the dance party of a lifetime. Actually, it was one of four dance parties of a lifetime, since you can bet your bottom dollar that I'll have my finger on the mouse the second tickets are released for the next three years. And, no, I'm not planning on selling them for 30 dollars. Before you pull out your fancy-Nancy economic justification for ticket scalping, hear me out: you just missed out on an unforgettable night of grinding with 2,500 of your shmammered classmates, you fool. Betchya feel awful silly now.
See, I did my research. I knew this was going to be a night for the ages. Those 2,264 views on the promo video? You can thank my floor for that. One of the most in-depth hall conversations I've had to date has been over whether the guy at 1:33 or the one at 2:47 is happier (consensus: "Guys, we're going to FALL BALL!"). That video propelled me through the week, the drop giving me just the adrenaline boost I needed to find myself dressed and ready to go by 7:30 on Friday night.
And, do you know what? Before you pity me, know that I'm proud that I left the dorm at 9 with my friends, even if it was a while before we actually made it into Gantcher due to reports of a "dead" dance floor (and just for the record, that wouldn't have stopped me if I had been alone). I wasn't embarrassed to be one of the first ones eking out a few "dance moves" when I finally went inside. So what if I tried on every single one of my friend's dresses Friday after class because I didn't own one that said "nice, but not too nice and OK to get pretty sweaty yet looks good without trying too hard"? I'll be darned if I don't live out my freshman year to its cliched fullest.
As I stare down at the peeling remnants of my sparkly purple nail polish, I can still hear the faint pulse of dubstep and see a hazy flash of club lights. And I can't help but smile.
I'll be here to impart some more freshmanic enthusiasm when Winter Bash and Spring Fling roll around. Boy, I just love seasons!
