I missed Dimensions weekend because I had to go to a national science competition in New Mexico, which is pretty much all you need to know to understand my freshmen fall self. As I had spent the past year and a half slicing up rat brains in a lonely laboratory, I had absolutely no practical experience in the Dartmouth or any other social scene.
As a result, I was a little unsure about my future Friday night exploits, which I envisioned as a kind of amalgamation of key scenes from both Animal House and Not Another Teen Movie. Due to my less-than-active social life in high school (for some odd reason, snagging the prestigious position of debate team captain does not automatically land you on the invite lists of every my-parents-are-away-for-the-weekend extravaganza). I built up my perception of college parties beyond belief, so while I was a little fuzzy on the details, I was sure that whatever Dartmouth social life entailed, it must be Cool and Sophisticated.
Cut to me standing in a basement and realizing that my shoes are stuck to the floor.
My suspicions about these "glamorous" college parties I had imagined only multiplied after we tried to obtain some festive beverages. The alpha female of my 'shmob asked a large, steaky guy who appeared to be a brother if we could have some beer, which he helpfully provided after unearthing a half-empty thirty-rack from a giant pile of discarded cups and cans.
Eventually, I grew accustomed to the smell of the AD basement and the concept of pong as a date. I even learned not to carry a purse and amassed an impressive collection of frat shoes. Resigned to the fact that my current social life consisted mostly of standing around in a basement watching people make fools out of themselves (I detag all of my Facebook photos to hide the evidence of my fooldom), I eagerly awaited my LSPlay to Spain. This, I told myself, was where I would Arrive.
History has a funny way of repeating itself, so this time let's cut to a tourist-trap club in Puerto Olmpico, where a more-than-slightly intoxicated British tourist is spilling sangria on my pants. Classier setting? Check. Exact same belligerent antics, except this time I paid 10 just to walk in the door? Yeah. Worst of all, with no pong to ease the awk, you have to keep the conversation going for hours on end. Gack.
So, to conclude (I have next on table) yes, the Dartmouth social scene fell epically short of my Hollywood-style image of The College Experience. But honestly, a basement is just a (twisted ) microcosm of universal hanging out: friends + loud music + questionable beverages = a good time. Right now, I'll take the Dartmouth version. It's free in that ignore-my-social-dues kind of way, you see people you at least recognize instead of randos and pong keeps the rhythm going. Pass me a paddle and don't make me graduate.
