A wise woman once said, “Do: Fist pump. Don’t: Judge.” Although there’s plenty to be said for class, moral standards and the overall preservation of dignity, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

“Work hard, play hard” is the Vandy way. We only have four years here (or five, if you subscribe a bit too much to the latter and not enough to the former), in which every one of us wants to make the most of our college experience. To me, this doesn’t necessarily mean drinking oneself into oblivion and bringing home a different guy or girl every night of the week, but if that sounds like the idea college experience to you, who are the rest of us to judge? At no other stage in our lives will it be considered appropriate to party on this level. At no other stage in our lives would our bodies even survive a standard Vandy weekend. Students at our school go out night and day, week in and week out, and still close out the semester with Dean’s List grades, while running student government, while finding a cure for cancer. Students here, male and female alike, are more than smart enough to get away with partying too much and are just dumb enough to do it.

Moderation is for public schoolers and Ivy leaguers — this is Vanderbilt. We can have whatever we like.

But here’s the problem: what’s with all the judgment being brought down on the females on this campus? If girls want to shotgun beers, eat Branscomb Breakfast every night and theme for every party, every weekend in nothing but American Apparel spandex, I’m certainly not going to stop them. In fact, that sounds pretty fun to me. It’s really got nothing to do with the rest of us. It’s bad enough the way we’re judged and categorized via the Greek Life recruitment system — we certainly don’t need our peers and sisters coming down on us, too. When I start seeing the average Vanderbilt frat guy wearing button-downs and slacks to class (aside from during pledging), or maybe even showering every day, I might try to accept the idea that the ladies on this campus need to step up our game.

So until then, self-proclaimed Hepburnites, goddesses of all things glamour and grace, Sandra Dees and Stepford Wives beyond reproach, the rest of us commoners will continue to have more fun than you. Thanks for the judgment, but if I wear a short skirt it’s not to get attention from skeazy guys, it’s likely because it matches the top I’m wearing. And if I fall off of a bar stool, it’s probably less because I’m drunk and more because I’m laughing so hard at you. I can at least assure you that the girls at whom you direct your criticism will always follow one piece of your advice: they likely wouldn’t be caught dead wearing night-before makeup to an 8 a.m. class, because there’s no chance they’d be caught dead taking an 8 a.m. class.

And to all you ladies out there drinking the fishbowls, dancing on elevated surfaces and raging through the rain at tailgates: party on. Work hard, play hard, or any combination of the two. Drink that whole bottle of Andre (but if you share, pour, don’t swig — Swine Flu). You’ve only got four years here until the real world comes crashing in, and they’re no one’s business but your own. See you this weekend.