*For Anna and Tommy:**##
One Friday before 11s, I stood with a friend in the Novack line, and he jokingly asked why I was absent from our history class that week.
"Still drunk? Hungover? Got a cold? I got it, who's the new boyfriend?! Geez Char, it's senior year. YOLO! Don't hibernate yet!"
He smirked as he ate his sesame bagel, clearly imagining my hungover self pressing the snooze button.
Kindly shut the f*ck up, I thought to myself. Kindly wake up and try to understand a human's silence. Maybe I needed a coffee after another sleepless night of cold sweats, or maybe I'm humiliated by the fact that last night, I had to warn a very nice new boy in my life that I'll probably scream in the middle of the night. Please don't touch me lovingly from behind I'll react instinctively. And an alarm is unnecessary I'll have been awake all night, anyway.
Maybe it's the fact that I buy makeup 10 shades lighter than my olive skin to cover the black circles under my eyes. Or that the reason I looked so thin in my black dress is a physical manifestation of recent events in my life, or I tried to eat a sandwich for lunch today and many days before that, but all attempts induced nausea.
Returning to my Novack buddy. As I watched him finish up his bagel, I knew I'd never tell him, but it didn't matter, anyway who is ever honest at this school? He laughed at what he saw as ditziness, and I just smiled. I'll have way more fun getting a better grade on my history paper, anyway.
Later that day, I played pong with a new friend who asked me why I hung out so much more senior year compared to freshman and sophomore years.
After choosing the best of many white lies in my brain storage, I responded, "I studied real hard."
Afterwards, I found some drunk friends who didn't know I was sober, who didn't know I don't indulge myself in cigarettes in dark corners next to Avicii-blasting stereos or in doing key bumps, or that I couldn't pull my trigger for a dime. And I hear from the oh-so-kind Greekvine that I must be bleeding money with my Boca Raton heritage and J. Crew clothes. I smiled again, because I know how easy it is to throw on hand-me-downs from sorority friends, pull designer magazines from trash cans and mold myself to achieve social acceptability an always-relative term.
Flash forward an hour I descended into the black, painted basement with my girlfriends, and we felt liberated as we danced our butts off on upturned pong tables to Tay Sway, who was just as annoying as usual. Basement trolls grabbed me with the hopes of a dance and perhaps a good screw, but they didn't know that their pampered hands on my ass reminded me, always, of how I barely escaped a gang attack in D.C. last month by jumping into a stranger's car, and when I told them to "kindly get the f*ck off," they looked at me like I looked at my cereal. At the end of my night, I asked a friend to walk me home, and he commented that he was surprised I adhered to such chivalrous principles (i.e., asking a guy to walk me home) because he always saw me as a strong, "independent" woman.
Ugh! The audacity! I'm the strongest, most independent woman I know, you fool. But despite the number of laps I swim or ridiculous miles I sprint or the self-defense classes I take, which occupy too much of my precious time lately, I am in general physically weaker than most men who come near me.
My friend continued his belligerent mumblings, rhetorically asking, "Well, Charlotte, what's the likelihood anything will happen? Hanover is absurdly safe."
Did I show him how I really felt? Nope, because, again, who's ever honest here? I mean, this column is about honesty, or the lack of it, and I'm explicitly avoiding the majority of things actually going on in my life. So who'd ever be insane enough to write an article as crazy as this piece is? Allow me to raise the question: Is it crazy? Maybe just a little? Or maybe... maybe I'm just throwing out words that few people will acknowledge? Addressing a dialogue that only some of my baller friends in Phoenix initiate, or voicing thoughts begging to be freed from your stubborn skull (and for those of you on pedestals, freed from your stubborn subconscious)?
My response to this question went along the lines of, "Thanks for walking me. Let's talk about this in the morning when you're not slurring your words."
I'm annoyed at my response. He was admittedly blacked out at that point, my woman power spiel would have been to no avail. But by conceding to his belligerence, I instead chose a pathetic silence. People are afraid to talk about uncomfortable, sensitive and traumatic issues because they're sadly too real for most of us. Come forward, my unfortunate loves, and stop this misery. I'd rather be with 10 naive and trusting people than with 10 lonely and scared cynics. Screw the Dartmouth X. I know I'm not washed up, and I could give a sh*t if I'm jaded, because so are you sweet bros who revel in denial. I'm not attacking the men; I love men, and I'm not complaining about female vulnerability or belittling female power I embrace my femininity. Being jaded enough to understand morbidness is tragic, but if you greet it, grab your experience by the horns, and be proactive about keeping your friends pleasantly blissful.
My friends know I genuinely appreciate partying responsibly. Recently, you've asked why my beer remains full, as you pressure me to take a shot of my favorite whiskey, and I've gotten good at bullsh*tting about being an in-season athlete. Who knew people were actually concerned with maximizing nutritious intake!
Enlighten me, friends: Why is my decision to not drink relevant to the success of your night? I'm just as awesome when I'm sober, and it makes me sick to think of what could have happened to the number of struggling party animals I've assisted late at night when no one's around or feels like stepping up. I drink what I want, when I want. Respect the sensitive nature of a seemingly simple, yet extremely complex decision. If you're insistent on prying, I'll sit you down and tell you everything I've got, and I swear you'll cry over it. I am speaking objectively here about issues of sensitivity, ignorance and thoughtlessness. If I offended anyone in this article, please communicate your concerns to me, and we'll debate until the wee hours of the morning.
I do me, you do you. It's honesty from here on out, so if those presumptuous fools ask what's up, tell them I'm busy snappin' my fingers: YOLO.
