By Carly Berndt, For The Miami Student
The other day I saw a girl in what appeared to be a "Walk of Shame" predicament, clad in an oversized shack shirt, more or less running down High Street in what I could only assume were last night's heels and remarkably well-preserved 12-hour old makeup.
"Her purse is cute," I thought. "Maybe if I didn't spend $20 on tequila shots three nights a week I could get myself a similar one."
Upon further inspection, it became clear to me that this was not a girl running home to the comfort of her own bed but rather a girl participating in Greek recruitment.
I imagine that recruitment is one of the few times in a young woman's life that they wish they were actually a young man. From my understanding, boys have a few nights of telling sexual jokes and coming up with creative answers while girls have two weekends worth of contoured hell.
For me, asking for my hair to be washed and brushed for more than 36 hours at a time is a lot to ask, so it's easy to understand how shocking it is that any free individual would voluntarily sign up to not only be clean, but presentable prior to 10 in the evening on a strict Thursday to Saturday schedule.
From the outside looking in, the biggest differences from the first two weeks of second semester as compared to the rest of the weeks are the following: first, the ratio between girls who look like they rolled out of bed five minutes prior to stepping outside versus the girls who look like they respect themselves becomes way out of balance.
It's enough to almost persuade me to put on pants with a button or a zipper, or a bra with a clasp, or any other of those pre-yoga-pant-and-40-dollar-lace-fake-bra era clothing mishaps.
I don't know what happens to these girls that make them think they need to have their eyebrows drawn on and heeled ankle boots zipped up for their 10 a.m. French 102 class, but it brings me back to a dark point in my life.
I was 7 and my mother wanted my family to try to be Christian. I had to wake up at 8:30 a.m. for a church service - I ate seven bagels prior to the service and threw up between some hymnal and the donation baskets.
We never went back to church after that, which supports my unrelated idea that bagels can solve nearly any problem.
Secondly, as soon as happy hour hits, anything past Campus and High becomes a near 100 percent sausage fest. Albeit an economically generous sausage fest. But, as I and all other girls know, the best part of a night is meeting nice girls in bar bathrooms.
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It is truly flattering when a sweaty male stumbles his way about three inches from my face, manages to ask to buy me a drink and offers an invitation to "go back to my place." But the only thing better than a drunk male thinking I'm hot enough to spend $3 dollars on is a drunk girl telling me she likes my outfit and wants to take a selfie on Snapchat.
There are a few obvious issues with recruitment, both male and female. However, the odds of anyone caring about the underlying gender inequality message or the overall misplaced value systems of the events as a whole are about the same as the odds that I "start eating better and working out more." Because apparently brunch doesn't count as brunch when you also eat breakfast and lunch.
So, instead of rambling on about another feminist regime or complaining about how some 18-year-old boys got too drunk (again), it is better to be thankful for the seven to 10 days where sweaty boys don't ask me what sorority I'm in and instead ask me why I'm taking handfuls of pretzels from the bar at Pachinko's and putting them in my pockets.