It’s the start of a new semester, which means there are new problems out there that need my advice. I’m fresh off the plane from North Korea where I was busy instructing Kim Jong-il on his golf game. If I can get him shooting 38-under par, I’m pretty sure I can change your life.
Dear Matt,
Bid day was yesterday, and I just know I got the wrong house. I was destined for something more—more fashionable scarves, more stripper-style leather boots that go up to the thigh. Instead, all I got was sisters with more facial hair on their collective upper lips. I’m thinking about withdrawing from the Greek system completely, but I don’t want to be known as a quitter. What should I do?
-Sorority Stressed
Dear Stressed,
Right now, you are experiencing the Kübler-Ross model of grief. Except since you are now a sorority girl and your grief is over rush, it looks slightly different.
Tears of Denial: The key here is the constant head shaking, as if you are silently saying, “No, that is not the pony I wanted!” This can’t be happening. You pretended to enjoy these girls’ hobbies, from darning socks to catfish noodling. Pinch yourself. Maybe it was all a cold, exhausting dream.
Tears of Anger: The saltiest of all the tears. Put down that pencil eyeliner you’ve sharpened into a jailhouse shank. Why even join a sorority at this point? You already have a real-life sister. Do you really need new t-shirts with those Greek letters on it? Or new picture frames, cups, laundry baskets, magazine subscriptions, mix CDs, and kitchenette dining sets?
Tears of Bargaining: You will now half-heartedly smile while crying. When one of your guy friends asks you about rush, you’ll tell him you’ve asked the Office of Greek Life to recheck the complicated computer formulas they use, which actually consist of them throwing everyone’s information down a giant flight of stairs. I would love to finish that joke and tell you which stair stands for which sorority, but I can already imagine unsuspectingly eating my lunch and then getting stabbed in the arm with a fork. What do you mean Tri-Gamma was the third step from the bottom? ARGH!
Tears of Depression: These are some serious tears. Some John Boehner tears. You’ll be sobbing now, calling home and telling your family you want to transfer. You’ll tell your friends you want to transfer. You’ll tell the maintenance worker who comes to change your light bulb you want to transfer. If only you had shown those sisters your true self—the one you concealed, much like that giant tattoo of Taylor Swift on your left shoulder blade.
Tears of Acceptance: A solitary drop, trickling down your cheek. In exactly three months, you will be saying, “You know, I really couldn’t see myself in any other house,” a statement made by every girl about every sorority ever, probably because they are all pretty much the same. Put yourself in any group of 150 Vanderbilt girls and you’re sure to find the following: three best friends, two enemies and 120 girls wearing leggings or tights.
Soon, it’ll be your turn to poke, prod and question a whole new group of rushes. So, hang in there. It’s not like campus is going to judge you forever by which sorority you’re in. I’m sure it’s not like that at all.
