A Drunk Lawrentian... Send Help

Last week, I walked into three different lecture-styled classes, made my way to the back row, and sat. And three different times, I watched as my nearby friends smiled, looked me up and down, and pulled out their phones to take a quick snapchat of my rather absurd outfit before the professor stood up to begin yet another riveting lesson. I was dressed in solely royal blue, head to toe: royal blue sneakers, socks, sweatpants (tucked into said socks), tshirt, hat, scarf, and necklace beads.

Although I was definitely not known for my stylistic choices in high school, I can assure you that this unicolor ensemble was not a fashion statement by choice. Instead, I had been “charged” by my collegiate soccer teammates and “found guilty” for the “offense” of wearing solely high school apparel to a team meeting. And yes, this was true. Two days prior, I had worn socks emblazoned with the red L, maroon shorts proudly displaying the Stephens House name, the classic Lawrenceville Athletics grey t-shirt, and I even topped it all off with the thick LGBR headband, which spells out the infamous battle cry of “Lets Go Big Red." On the day of the crime, I had willingly put on each article of clothing, but had failed to notice that every inch of my body would be covered in Big Red apparel by the time I walked out of my dorm room. But what are teammates for, right? Noticing these things, calling you out, and giving you a little tease. Or in my case, a lot of teasing. And with this rather crude offense on my record, I found myself in the back row of class wearing a Smurf suit of apparel from my new college. I literally could have been a poster child for “Lets Go Big Blue."

Being a student athlete this fall, I can’t say I’ve experienced many late night rages and early morning regrets. Yet, despite my lack of partying, I still sometimes find myself in a similar haze as my peers every morning. I walk around my gorgeous new college campus feeling like my head is fogged with blurry memories. I try desperately to fill in the gaps of the black parts that I can’t quite remember. I get a bit anxious every time that I feel like I’m forgetting a piece of the puzzle. I feel a bit of sadness, a bit of sickness, every time I think too hard about the three years that escaped me so quickly. It’s something I have coined as The Lawrenceville Hangover.

I think we all got a little drunk on Lawrenceville. A few of us might’ve been the barely buzzed kid that just showed up to class towards the end, counting down the days until freedom from those iron gates. Some of us were intoxicated out of our minds, as we filled each moment to the brim with more and more activities as time ran short. Most of us probably fell in between. Nonetheless, I feel like we all took sips from our very own Big Red solo cup, as we immersed ourselves in a culture, a bubble, a community, so unique and indescribable to those not on the invite list.

I guess I enjoyed my three years at Lawrenceville, because I’m two months into college (at a place that I love equally as much), but still can’t seem to rid myself of that high school hangover. I’m sobered every time my college professor doesn’t quite remember my name. Or when it’s time to register for classes and I don’t have my housemaster to hold my hand. Or when I roll over every morning to the Lawrenceville shrine on my wall, including a felt banner and pictures of the greatest memories. My friends and I took one too many trips to the Lawrenceville punch bowl. Rather than filling our weekends with libations, we drank up the moments on the sports fields, in the common room, in the circle, on the glorious well-lit paths. I have my L-ville love goggles strapped on tight, probably more so now than ever, enabling me to find the beauty in the late nights of last minute papers or the tragedy of seeing that cute boy at Sunday brunch after an awkward Saturday night at the dance. There’s an incredible charm to it all. It’s something that leaves me with the worst kind of aches, ones that can’t be fixed with Advil and hydration.

So to those still young and vicarious enough to be on the Lawrenceville A-List: just like any good party, the highs will be high and the lows will be low. Sometimes you might need a friend to carry you home. But I can promise you that you’ll make it through and have the time of your life. Besides, liquid fun is overrated, so really make the most of those Irwin dances. But to those like me, still waking up a bit drunk: talk to your friends, they can often help you remember the best parts of your night.