Walking into Mac today, I obviously picked a high top table. I am after all about to be a senior, and I basically rule the entire school. Atop my ivory tower, doused in the light of the sun, I sat across from my cohort ready to watch the madness unfold.
That’s right kids, it's 8-man day. And what better place to be on this day at noon than sitting incognito in Mac amongst the underclassmen, waiting for them discover their fate.
Time went by without much action. My friend and I chatted, legs crossed piously, about tailgating in the Mods next year with basically all of our friends (because if you didn’t get a Mod we are so not friends anymore). In the midst of our discussion of which Migos lyrics would make a good party theme for our first senior party, it happened.
Just as the fireworks explode in the sky on the Fourth of July, so did the tiny groups of students from their squeaky chairs in Mac. In each group, there was at least one member who remained seated, either too shook by the news to be mobile or visibly embarrassed by the outbursts of their fellow roommates—faces painted with immediate RR (roommate regret). There is always a jumper, a hugger, the unreciprocated high fiver, the one already texting someone else about pick times just to brag about their own.
Scattered among them were the solemn groups, the ones that looked as if they’d just seen a dog hit by a car. Expressions blank with the fear of the wretched CoRo, their unavoidable social decline, and the annoying girl in their perspectives class who they just know got a pick time.
Tossing my hair back, I exchanged a wry, condescending grin with my companion, trying desperately to forget that I spent my sophomore year on CoRo.