Before I begin my story, I should mention that I believe in destiny. Not like real Merriam-Webster destiny, but comedic destiny. I fully believe the Universe subliminally puts ideas into my head so I can add to the breadth of stories I have collected over a lifetime.
Except that it wasn't. At all. I couldn't wear a sundress on game day because I would have looked like a total idiot, not to mention causing frostbite in every extremity. I didn't shake a pom-pom or drive the band "crazy"...
Because I did musical theater. The band was infinitely cooler than me.
I don't generally agree with the stereotypes concerning sororities. If you have ever met me (or can probably tell from my writing), I'm not exactly what I would call "sweet," "soft-spoken," or my personal favorite, "blonde." I mark the blonde stereotype as my personal favorite since I have brown hair and a soul comprised of darkness and pure jackassery.*
To explain any story, one has to begin at the beginning...or rather, explain how I went from being a trash-talking Southside girl to a bonafide initiated-letter wearin'-standard sorority rain slicker sportin'-pride shoutin' Big 10 lady.
(I hope you read that in a Southern accent, for that is how I meant it).
When I decided to rush, I was a junior. At 20 years old, I was one of the oldest people rushing, which I thought was totally fine. I'm sure you're thinking, just as I was, that 20 is "not old..you've got at least 60 good years left in you!" But in rush culture, I may as well have showed up in velcro sneakers, a house coat, and red lipstick on my teeth. Or worn a giant red A upon my dress.** Either way, going through rush was like having my head rolled up in a car window. Repeatedly.
On the first day of rush, I awoke extra early so I would have time to tease my hair, spackle my face, and strap myself into a pair of shoes that by the end of the day, would incite me to cut my feet off in a "Saw" ***fashion.
Have you ever had a conversation with someone and slowly watched their eyes glaze over as they try to stay interested in what you're saying but are clearly looking for the nearest fire escape/ rope ladder/ rapunzel to use as an escape route? Well when you're the grandmother of the rush circuit, this is a reaction you become used to. I knew I had "lost" a house somewhere in between the question of "You're how old?" and "You finished that cup of M&M's rather quickly..."
I got hungry. Sue me.
In addition to dead eye reactions, I was prompted with a countless number of strange questions. My absolute favorite being, "What's your favorite part about riding horses?"
This would be a perfectly normal question, except I don't ride horses. Nor did I tell this girl that I did. Nor was I wearing anything equestrian related. So when I responded with "Oh I actually don't ride horses...", her response was "Oh...okay....but like what would be your favorite part?"
Seriously. this is my life.
The whole "I'm a junior!" statement was likened me to the Grinch--no one wanted to come near me with a ten foot pole. You would have thought I was trying to steal the livelihood of the whole greek system by rushing which should have bothered me more than it did, but alas, I was more concerned about my hair frizzing. Typical.
The first day that I visited the house I would end up being given a bid for, I knew it was where I wanted to be. I think that the people you encounter when you rush play a huge role in your impression of that house. For instance, I felt like I wouldn't fit into the previously mentioned chapter because I didn't know what she was talking about for the entire 40 minutes I was there. But when I visited my chapter, I was paired with someone who was just like me. She didn't offer me a fake smile or a generic question and, more importantly, she didn't figuratively (or literally) slam a door in my face because I was way too old to be rushing. It was the one place that didn't make me want to lay in the middle of Wright St. and let the 22 Illini bus run over my little black cocktail dress (which is quite an inappropriate outfit for 1pm on a Sunday).
I should mention that even though I never got to be as involved as I would have liked, I loved (and still do) my house. I love the people, I love the philanthropy, I loved the two exchanges I ever got to go to, and I love that I probably stocked up about 25 free meal coupons that I never got to use (so if any of you ladies can track those down, they're all yours). So despite my resentment towards the feeling of getting kicked out of houses a la Jazzy Jeff from Fresh Prince of Belair , I was a very happy girl on bid day to find out I had gotten exactly what I wanted.
But more importantly, in true Molly Sheehan fashion, all of the memories I had of my own rush experience went right out the window when I was on the other side the next year...
Stay tuned for Part II: The Art of the Girl Flirt.
*Yes, I made "jackassery" up. There's not many things I can do with a B.A. in English, so I'll be damned if I can't make up my own painfully appropriate words.
***The Saw series is definitely grotesque, but how painfully appropriate is this video both for the post and in the context of "Footloose?" Nothing I love more than a little violence, showtunes, and sarcasm all rolled into one video.
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