As the end of freshman year rolled around, I found myself daunted with questions about where I would live the next year; I never thought about living in a sorority house, but I soon found myself pen in hand, signing the lease binding me to a room with three other girls. I've only had to share a room with one other person in my lifetime, so I knew I was in for a wild ride. I found myself watching movies such as "Legally Blonde" before I moved in, falling in love with the perfect lifestyle of a sorority girl. But of course, no amount of movies could prepare me for living with 40+ girls. I'm not sure I've figure out the "art" of living in a sorority house, but whatever it is, it sure is one of hell of ride.
9 A.M.
Your alarm goes off repeatedly to the dismay of your roommate five feet away. You try to get up and sneak across the room to the bathroom, but of course the floor seems to creak louder than ever. When you finally do reach the bathroom, you struggle to pull yourself together, fighting over mirror space and reminiscing over last night's memories (or lack there of). By the time you're done, you realize you have to be at class in 15 minutes and rush down stairs in hopes of snagging some food. You quickly realize toasting a bagel is impossible and you ransack the snack drawer for anything that looks remotely edible before heading to class.
12 P.M.
You return home from class, famished from your lack of breakfast. As you head up the stairs to your room, you shout to whoever's around "what's for lunch?" An array of chicken or some type of sandwich fills the air...typical. You stumble down stairs, making yourself a plate and then walk out to the dinning room, slightly overwhelmed who to sit with.
3 P.M.
Finally done with the day, you hurry up the stairs to nap unseen but of course you're spotted and yelled to come into the TV room. You snuggle up onto the couch, getting ready to hear today's latest boy drama. When you finally escape, you're no longer tired and force yourself to start some homework. But nothing can go right; your computer keeps trying to connect to airorangex or someone opens the door to your room and starts a full blown conversation. So much for productivity.
8 P.M.
When eight strikes on a Friday night, the house becomes a loud zone. Girls are running down the hallways swapping outfits left and right and figuring out pregame plans. Music blasts from the rooms as you devour anything in your site. You know showering's not an option (a cold water shower is not worth it), so you spritz on extra perfume and hope someone has dry shampoo. With your FOB around your wrist, you run out the door, ready to face whatever's ahead of you.
1 A.M.
You come home, exhausted from the night's extravaganzas. You yet again raid the snack pantry and settle in on whatever surface you can find, taking drunken snaps or attempting to understand the group chat. Your eyes become heavy and soon you find yourself snuggled back into bed, still wearing the makeup you left with and your ratty sweats you wear every night.
And in the morning, the cycle begins again. The cycle is repetitive, but the memories are endless.
