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