I went through my first two years of Dartmouth adorably ignorant of any Monday night scene that extended beyond Tri-Kap Freeze. My knowledge of secret societies consisted solely of identifying the building next to AD as the Sphinx, which I assumed to be a tomb containing the embalmed remains of an actual sphinx. I thought Casque & Gauntlet was an affiliate of Dungeons & Dragons enthusiasts. And although C&G is not even "secret," I refused to ask further questions the fact that they had a formal was, in my imagination, the most ironically hip thing ever. I mean, I'd already seen "The Skulls" an age-old classic with Joshua Jackson and that really hot blonde guy who is mildly illiterate but is apparently quite Fast and, one might wager, 2 Furious so I wasn't totally clueless. I obviously knew that somewhere on campus, people (men) were clandestinely handed yellow convertibles and prostitutes. I just didn't see it.
Junior year, my dreams were shattered. There were no lion-headed corpses, no Portias in Porsches, no dungeons nor well, I was right about one thing. But all in all, when the tapping process began, the secrets that steadily unfolded were not only underwhelming, but also pretty damn un-secret. Where were the masks and capes and integrity-compromising demands?
Even now, I refuse to believe that I truly know the existence of all the secret societies on this campus. There has got to be one that is so secret that no one dares speak its name a society that tattoos their members on their internal organs in invisible ink. They convene on Tuesdays at the Men at Wok restaurant in West Leb and start all meetings with Gregorian chant. They maintain their secrecy not for elitist purposes, but out of necessity if the administration or the student body were to discover what connects them, their academic standing would be questioned and their social cache demolished. They are the Union of the Mediocre, bonded by their lack of significant talent, intimidating intelligence, athletic prowess and general clarity as to why they deserve to go to Dartmouth. They are, frankly, kind of sad. Well, so am I. And last weekend I proved I deserve to be tapped. So, Union of the Mediocre, here's why:
1) I am not a campus leader.
On Thursday, I devised a plan to bring "raise the roof" back. It consisted of my raising the roof at various social gatherings. Not only did no one join me, but all the leaders told me I'm not even allowed to be a follower anymore.
2) I have a stunning deficiency of athletic coordination.
On Friday, I missed flag football practice for the very first time. This was partially because I've begun to distrust my team and coaches. The first time they told me I was "the star" of the team, I naturally believed them, because I understood that flag football is not like normal football the ball isn't supposed to "spiral" in the air or be "caught" by a teammate. Rather, it should wobble and hit them in the shin. Duh. However, each successive practice made me more and more suspicious. And after the time I tripped on myself while standing on the sidelines, my captain's response "That's our star!" suddenly sounded a little less than sincere.
3) I can't wear hats.
On Saturday, I didn't wear a hat to Derby. Many asked me why. I asked them to lend me a hat to try on. I placed said hat on my abnormally large head. They immediately understood.
4) I can't cook.
On Saturday, I was supposed to cook for Derby. This almost happened. And by almost, I mean the ingredients did arrive at Derby, available for consumption. They just weren't "cooked," per say. More like stuffed in a plastic Co-op bag on a couch. "A" for effort.
5) I cannot rally.
On Saturday night, I slept. I slept for a total of 14 hours. Then I took a nap on Sunday.
6) I never get work done.
Unless by "work" you mean sleeping. Or watching TV. Or logging Facebook hours. All of which I did very well this weekend.
7) I can't sing, dance*, slam rhymes or even understand sex involving wings.
On Sunday, I went to "The Sides of Sex" event and was incredibly impressed by the diversity of talent we have on campus. And incredibly confused by a poem about wing sex. All in all, I felt as mediocre as they come. Pun intended.
Union of the Mediocre, please take this as my official plea for membership in your society. I really think this past weekend proved what I have to offer, which is minimal. Thus, I am perfect for you.
*Oh, and full disclosure: I was on Sheba Lite my sophomore Summer. So I'm like a little percent awesome. But not enough to disqualify me. But still. I'll self-call to my grave.
