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The last lap: Welcome Week when you're washed up


American University


The last lap: Welcome Week when you're washed up

Reminiscing on simpler times a month later


Attending Welcome Week extravaganzas as a senior is like going to Disney World as an adult.
There are equal amounts of sweat and the same reliance on alcohol to make it through.
But, like that trip to Disney you took as a kid, you don’t remember any of the specifics of your freshman Welcome Week, you just remember the magical feeling. All the stories that have survived amongst your friends are now complete folklore. They’re passed on like bizarre Old Testament verses.

Corinthians 13:2? Ah yes, the Friday of Welcome Week. Sammy paint party. Ryan hits third base on the corner of Harrison and Reno. Jeremiah 10:6? That would be Saturday. Rugby. Cole’s foot is run over by an Uber.

Now, as a Senior, you think you can reclaim this magic if you simply rally the troops, dig out your best crop top, and make the walk of shame from the shuttle stop to Sig Ep. The wildness of Welcome Week is just there waiting for you. If you truly believe in it.

Oh, but you're wrong. You called out sick from your internship tomorrow for nothing, my friend.
Here you are in the Sigma Chi basement. The sweat didn’t make it into those folklores, did it? Neither did the taste of lemon-lime Burnett’s and Coke. Neither did the Pit Bull.

Now you’re in the crowded kitchen, and it’s clear you dug out one of your crop tops from three years ago. Your underboob sweat is VISIBLE. You wonder how the hell every freshman girl looks like Kylie Jenner? How is their matte lip liner still intact in this sauna of sweat and alcohol? You can’t help but be filled with rage when one of them flirts with Eddie from your floor freshman year. Eddie? Really? Baby girl, Eddie still rocks cargo shorts. It's just not worth it.

But then you remember what it was like to have an upperclassman flirt with you at a party. The way he looked when he handed you that Natty Light so many moons ago. “Hey, I’m a brother here.” WOAH. That’s better than cocaine.

You come to. You and your girlfriends are sober, sweaty, and miserable. Someone mentions Ubering to Johnny P’s. You get into your Uber as a group of freshmen girls start their walk back to the dorms. Your friend utters something, a line that seems to become the mantra of your Last Lap.

"I’m too old for this shit.”