The weather is finally nice, the sun is out, and suddenly all the boys are in chubbies, tank tops, and bucket hats. It's springtime at Marist College, and that can only mean one thing: It's the fucking Catalina wine mixer.
You and the squad are hyped. You've been dreaming about this day since Catalina ended last year, when you woke up in the plastic swimming pool hugging a flamingo funnel. You've sat around reminiscing and watching the hype video and squealing -- "OMG, remember when Gabby did this!" or "I totally forgot that happened -- OMG!"
You check your closet and realize you have literally nothing to wear, so you buy ridiculous amounts of pastels, flowers, and high necklines. It's really important to buy all the expensive, preppiest clothes, because you're definitely going to wear this again and totally will not spill all of your Barefoot Moscato on it. The look you're going for is preppy mom chic with a hint of slutty. You really can't decide which bow matches your orange Lilly Pultizer dress so you buy five just in case.
You and the squad strategically plan out everything you need from the liquor store. Yow know exactly what you're going to drink and at what times. Buy out all the Franzia Sunset blush and Andre champagne. You need it all. You want to be classy and drink mimosas, but that will actually become you chugging and spilling $10 champagne all over your white shoulder tied sweater. Plus they're having a sale on Natty Light so obvious you need to get three cases. But still you wonder, is this enough? Another bottle never hurts so you add a handle of tequila and say you can always get more.
Next, you need the perfect pre-game. You decide to host because it gives you more time to get ready and you need extra help deciding if you should wear a bow or a sun hat. You make a lit pre-game playlist perfect for drunk dancing on couches. It's complete with bangers like "Temperature," "Mr. Brightside" and, of course, Fetty Wap.
The morning of Catalina the bottles start popping at 8 a.m. (the only time you willingly get up that early). By 10, the squad is lit and some girl is already puking off your balcony. As you hold her freshly curled hair and secretly whisper for her to get her shit together, you look outside and see a line of boys in double polos and checkered pants and girls in Jack Rogers making the drunk march to the homeland. Fill up your plastic Mason jar with some vodka lemonade and go. Catalina has begun.
