‘Cat! Get up! The buses are leaving!’ I utter a defeated groan as my roommate begins chucking clothes around the room while frantically pulling on a pair of fishnet stockings. After a long nightshift at my restaurant, my head had just hit my pillow, and my purse is still dangling from my arm. A small herd of new members go thundering past our door, adjusting devil horns and halos atop their perfectly hairsprayed up-dos and snapping pictures of each other with pouted lips. I lazily reach over, grab my stuffed anteater and attempt to catch a nap in its furry stomach.
‘Cat! Get up! This is going to be one of your last exchanges EVER,’ she shouts and throws a pair of my black leggings at my head. I sigh deeply and sit up, reaching for a black dress and trying to muster up a second wind. I fantasize about a night curled up on the couch watching re-runs of ‘The Office,’ and then scold myself for acting like an 85 year-old. Tugging on my high heels, I too make my way down the stairs, and pause for a pouty-faced picture or two.
After three years of dress-up parties and organized chaos, I can confidently say that some of the best times of my college years were spent on the dance floor with my sisters, dressed up as some ridiculous secretary (or what have you) and yelling along to Justin Timberlake. However, as I stared at the group of people writhing around on the dance floor that night, I actually felt old. I felt that maybe I should be playing shuffleboard instead of attempting to learn the ‘Superman That Ho’ dance.
I sat down with a group of our younger sisters, and we compared notes on how our respective evenings were going. They asked me questions about what my experiences in the sorority have been like