Wednesday, January 16, 2019 // The Statement 
 
7B
Wednesday, January 8, 2020 // The Statement
7B

I 

thought I’d aged out of this years ago. 
I’m sitting criss-cross applesauce in 
my apartment while my roommate 
straightens my hair. The brush catches my 
hair knots and pulls my head back like the 
boys in my elementary school used to do, 
though it wasn’t because they liked me. 
The hair situation isn’t going as planned. 
My curls are beginning to spring back from 
stress sweat, caused by either the fact that I’m 
going to a dance with a stranger or the fear 
that I won’t fit in with the crowd. I have less 
than 20 minutes to figure out how I can turn 
my curly hair, acne and glasses into something 
remotely resembling a sorority girl.
“Do you want me try straightening it 
again?” my roommate asks.
“Who even cares anymore?” I yell and look 
at myself in the mirror, which I’ve smudged so 
I have a barrier between myself and my reflec-
tion. I wish I’d just left my hair curly but don’t 
have time to fix it. I swallow my inferiority com-
plex and call an Uber to the fraternity house.
Part of my anxiety comes from the fact that 
I wasn’t technically asked to this date party. It 
was more of an indirect invite, like in middle 
school when a friend asked my crush out on 
my behalf without asking for permission (he 
said no). My other roommate had been invit-
ed to the date party and wanted to set me up 
with another fraternity brother so we could 
go together. I said yes as long as she promised 
not to bail on me. Less than two days later, she 
backed out.
I could’ve backed out, too, but somehow felt 
obligated to keep my promise. Maybe it was 
out of compliance to the popularity gods, or an 
attempt to redefine my status as an awkward 
art girl. Maybe I was just curious to see if I 
could fit in with Greek life for a night. 

I arrive at the house, an ex-mansion van-
dalized with large Greek letters. I stand 
outside the front doors like a child waiting 
for their play date. The doors open to reveal 
my date, a tall and handsome figure with 
curly blonde hair that makes me feel silly for 
straightening mine. He invites me inside and 
we pass a DJ hyping up five people dancing. I 
try not to think about how much money was 
spent on this event. 
A girl poses in the living room, her back 
arched and eyes averted from her boyfriend 
snapping photos. A crowd cheers her on as 
she contorts her body into extreme shapes to 
accentuate her curves. She’s clearly done this 
before.
We pass a few more girls, all of whom are 
wearing similar outfits as me but are taller 
and with clearer skin. I feel like I’m in fifth 
grade and the prettiest girl in class is sitting 
next to me wearing the same Aeropostale 
shirt. I am a lab experiment: If we keep outfit 
X constant, it will yield significant results in 
measuring beauty, Y.
My date and I enter a room away from the 
noise and start getting to know each other. 
We have more in common than I previously 
thought: an interest in the Myers-Briggs test, 
a lack of interest in Greek life (ironic consid-
ering he’s a frat brother) and an equal hatred 
of the grading system. I wonder if this night 
could actually turn out well.
Our party bus arrives and we’re met with a 
cloud of bubblegum nicotine inside. I’m intro-
duced to two identical girls sitting across from 
us, whose names I immediately forget.
“Super cute glasses, don’t feel self con-
scious about them!” the one on the left tells me 
before I can say anything. I grimace.
Once the bus starts to move, the cabin goes 

dark and blasts EDM 
music. Strobe lights 
signal the passen-
gers to slowly rise 
from their seats like 
zombies and I watch 
in horror as they col-
lectively grind on 
each other in freeze 
frames. Their faces 
are 
dead, 
drunk, 
their bodies moving 
out of obligation to 
the night. I wonder 
if there’s a full moon 
outside.
The club is packed 
with the same scene. 
Distant faces, some-
where 
between 
bored and aroused, 
are attached to loose 
bodies touching each 
other with a sense of 
urgency. Again, the 
DJ seems to be hav-
ing the most fun of 
anyone.
My date asks a girl to take a photo of us. I 
feel like Nick Carraway next to Gatsby, a fan 
meeting her celebrity crush. The flash goes off 
and I place my hand awkwardly on his stom-
ach. I imagine my acne scars lit up under the 
light, spelling out “she shouldn’t be here” in 
Braille. I don’t look at the photo.
I head to the bathroom and face a chorus of 
yelling that someone cut in line, sobbing com-
ing from the corner and three occupied stalls 
with girls vomiting. The floor is more toilet 
paper than it is tile. One girl stands at the sink 
posting an Instagram photo. 
I wonder if all the girls in the bathroom 
were once posed like the model I saw in the 
frat house. Maybe this is the only place they 
can escape the feeling of being watched, the 
one place where they don’t perform. 
I wait as dozens of girls cut in front of me in 
line, letting them pass without a word.
I

t’s become instinct for me to assume 
attractive people are better than me. I 
find myself listening to their presenta-
tions more closely, following their Instagram 
even if I don’t know or care about them and 
feeling envious of their new job even if it’s at 
an obscure consulting firm. But the more I’m 
in spaces with these people, it makes me won-
der what “attractive” actually means – does 
it mean being tall and impossibly fit? Does it 
mean attending Pure Barre classes twice a 
week? Or does it just mean looking the exact 
same as everyone else?
As I look around the bathroom, I not only 
realize I’m freed from being watched, but I 
was never being watched in the first place. 
The girls walking past me in line don’t even 
give me a second glance. I could have skipped 
the hour before the party I spent staring at 
myself in the mirror, my hair curly and frizzy 

with bangs sticking to my forehead. I could 
have skipped the makeup and let me acne 
scars glow. No one even cared that I was there 
– and neither did I.
After finally pushing my way through the 
bathroom crowd, my date takes me to Buffalo 
Wild Wings with his friend and his friend’s 
girlfriend. “Wheel of Fortune” plays on the 
waiting area TV. I watch Vanna White strut 
across the screen and wonder if she’s actually 
there to reveal the clue’s letters or just to boost 
the show’s ratings.
“Did you know Vanna White makes $8 mil-
lion a year?” I ask. “Just for being beautiful 
and walking across the screen?”
My date shrugs. “Sometimes that’s what 
pays.”
Our food finally arrives and as I bite into 
my chicken wing, my date’s mouth falls open. 
“We’re going to miss our bus.” Panic ensues; 
the friend starts swearing and the friend’s 
girlfriend sprints outside. Both of the guys 
chase after her. I take another bite of chicken 
and watch the scene unfold, amused.
The girlfriend finds the bus and screams 
at the driver to let us inside, pounding on the 
door and threatening him. He complies. The 
rest of us apologize on her behalf. It turns out 
the Vanna Whites of the world really can get 
away with anything.
On the ride home, the bus fights over the 
rest of our chicken wings like fresh kill. My 
date stares out the window and says, without 
looking at me, “I’d give this night a five out of 
ten. It’s past my bedtime.”
I’m offended for a few seconds then realize 
there was never a version of this night where 
we would both have a good time. It takes a 
certain kind of person to enjoy these kinds 
of events, a collection of values and priorities 
that I simply don’t have. I remember my date 
said the same thing about himself. 
I finally ask the question I’ve been wonder-
ing all night: “If you don’t like Greek life, why 
are you in it?”
He shifts in his seat and says he doesn’t 
really know. “I guess I just like living in the 
house with the guys,” he says. I wonder why 
he joined in the first place but stay silent. 
Maybe he and “the guys” joined freshman 
year and just stuck with it without question; 
I probably would have done the same if my 
friends and this culture were intertwined. I’m 
immediately thankful they’re not.
The bus parks and someone hands me the 
empty box of chicken wings as if I’m their 
trash can. My date gives me a quick hug good-
bye and I call for a ride home.
I stumble into my apartment and look at 
myself in the mirror. My straight hair has 
started to curl and my makeup is almost 
entirely wiped off from walking in the cold. 
I start to see myself between smudges in the 
glass. For the first time, I’m glad to see my 
reflection looks like me.
I climb into bed, happy to take off my cos-
tume. It’s exhausting being invisible.

How to be invisible at a date party

BY HANNAH BRAUER, STATEMENT COLUMNIST

ILLUSTRATION BY CHRISTINE JEGARL

