MEGAN PELSON '17
As I (rather, my dad) rolled down Wyllys Avenue playing David Guetta’s newest song from the car speakers, I turned it up when I definitely, definitely should have turned it down. At this point, I didn’t realize that if the pop I was blasting wasn’t synth-y enough, it wouldn’t cut it on Wesleyan’s campus. The car pulled up in front of Ooze-dan/Yoos-den/auto-correct to Sudan where I was greeted by my host, a friend from an 8th grade summer program.
Soon after, I found myself in Bennet, a dorm I would later become a very incognito resident of because “woah. Freshman Fauver is so lame and sterile. Also what even are sports?”. My host told me to start getting ready because it was 8 o’clock and we were about to go to a fashion show at the ice hockey rink. “In an ice hockey rink?” I thought, “Wesleyan really does keep it weird”. We showed up to the Freeman Center with our mixed drinks where we were greeted by P-Safe officers who told us to discard our bottles. The thought of surrendering even a shot of the alcohol that I stole from my parent’s liquor cabinet was not a thought I wanted to entertain. No. I went around the corner, shoved the soda bottle in the space between my tights and my skirt (pro-tip) and walked back up to P-Safe. I was sticking it to the man like a good ol’ Wesleyan student does.
Later that evening, I found myself at the infamous Beer Pong Thursdays. When I came to WesFest, I thought I was going to be the queen of Psi U. When I was a freshman, I was the queen of Psi U (just don’t ask too many people to confirm this). I stood there covertly Google-ing “beer pong rules” while simultaneously making eyes with a boy across the room wearing a Vineyard Vines sweatshirt and khakis. “He’ll be my college boyfriend” I assured myself, unaware that he was a definite anomaly on this campus. Somehow, the progression of the evening guided me upstairs to the “DJ Booth”—a highly revered spot where I was able to cast a superior gaze over my kingdom. Somewhere throughout the night, I gained the false confidence to change the music playing from the laptop. The beer pong games came to an abrupt halt, a few guys called out obscenities and I quickly left the fraternity. It was three hours past my bedtime, anyways.
The next morning, I packed up all my belongings including the low-cut shirts I was informed weren’t the “Wesleyan way”. My dad met me outside of 45 Wyllys (I still couldn’t pronounce it) and I played The Strokes as I drove away because WesFest made me marginally cooler. I arrived back at my high school in time for afternoon classes, but spent the majority of time swerving back and forth in the hallway, trying to reconcile how I could be at school in a drunken stupor. In this moment, as I sheepishly averted my eyes from the middle-schoolers who watched me stumble across campus, I realized that Wesleyan wasn’t ready for me.