As the countdown begins until graduation day, an impending doom hovers over the Class of 2009. In only a matter days, we will be thrust ruthlessly into the (dun dun dun...) real world. For the majority of seniors who have spent the last four years eagerly assimilating into Dartmouth culture, we are forced to rapidly unlearn the conventions that define our day-to-day existence.
In the real world, a game consisting of paddling plastic balls at consumable targets is not an acceptable form of social interaction, nor is it an adequate low-budget substitute for a date.
In the real world, Dartspeak is hopelessly lost in translation, "blitz" isn't a means of communication and "boot" is a piece of footwear. In the real world, there are porcelain receptacles designed for the sole purpose of urine containment (better known as "toilets").
However, if there's one Dartmouth convention that most brazenly rejects real world social norms, it is sorority formals.
Maybe I'm being naive here, but I highly doubt that next year at your B-side consulting firm's end-of-the-fiscal-year "formal," public urination, booting and rallying and steamy suckin' face will be part of the night's agenda.
I actually stumbled upon this rude awakening at my own office holiday "formal" last fall. I had foolishly envisioned something more akin to the Dartmouth version. Perhaps my uptight, triumphantly man-hating boss throwing back a few martinis, ripping off her conservative J. Crew sweater vest and beltin' out the lyrics to Mariah Carey's "All I Want for Christmas."
I was sorely disappointed. It turns out corporate formals are more of an opportunity for schmoozing with the upper management than an excuse to dome oneself on pretentious cocktails and grind up on the I.T. guy that fixed your hard drive last week.
Sorority formals, however, are a different story.
Let me present a typical scenario: you begin with the bus ride to the facility, you and 80 or so rowdy kids are herded into a claustrophobic space, a disgruntled driver yells at you to keep your hands to yourself, the lonely vomit kid sits by himself in the back. Sex, booze and nudity aside, the whole experience is actually quite reminiscent of an elementary school bus ride.
And don't forget about the two-minute "bathroom break" in the middle. A drunken herd of finely attired ladies and gents happily dropping their undergarments and bladder contents on the side of the highway, while New Hampshire rush hour traffic zooms by it's a spectacle worthy of photo documentation.
The bus ride is such an integral part of the formal experience, in fact, that for nearby venues the bus drivers may actually be paid extra to drive in circles. Not kidding.
And after the long journey, the survivors are always eager to embark on a lusty crusade.
"I still don't entirely understand why the second you jump off that bus all you want to do is find a weird place and have sex!" said a member of the Class of 2009, a sex-at-formal veteran who wished to remain anonymous due to the sensitive nature of the subject.
Another student, who also wished to remain anonymous for similar reasons, noted, "I think, with spring formal in particular, [sex] is a common occurrence. Since formals tend to have indoor and outdoor aspects to them, people get drunk and then get excited about having sex somewhere more fun."
When asked about past sexcapades, many formal-goers fondly allude to Bates Mansion. Tucked away in the verdant hills of Vermont, Bates is a naturalistic wonderland, replete with 45 acres of lush farmland, unchartered forest and even dozens of (sometimes uninhabited) rooms.
While this may sound like a horny college kid's paradise, the deed is often easier said than done. Several students I spoke with reported Bates wounds: unsightly grass stains, multiple mosquito bites, even poison ivy in, ahem, compromising places.
"I was once really desperate at Bates," the sex-at-formal veteran confessed. "So [my date and I] wandered into a bedroom on the top floor. After like 10 minutes, I began to look around and noticed that there were like prescription pill bottles everywhere and the room was gross."
It was at this point that the veteran realized the room was inhabited by a Patrick Bateman look-a-like and "booked it outta there."
Another more recent formal-goer wasn't quite so fortunate. After obliviously wandering into the venue manager's house, she and her date decided to engage in some serious canoodling.
"We got caught when the owner walked in and yelled, What the hell are you doing in my house? Get Out!'" she said. "More than anything, it was just like a terrifying surprise, since neither of us had realized it was a house."
As for whether she regrets the decision?
"Well, I regret getting caught and regret being too drunk to realize that I was in somebody's home. but, it is kind of a hilarious story ... and was fun until the guy came home."
