>>> The Rollercoaster of Drama
By staff writer Simonne Cullen
February 6, 2005

So yesterday at brunch I discovered that it's prospective student weekend. A bunch of high school seniors with their parents dining on space eggs (yellow powder when mixed with water and then heated poof! eggs) and mini chicken balls, desperately trying to get a feel for the college and trying even harder not to stand out like an erect penis in a locker room after the big game.

It wasn't until I opted for a salad instead of the traditional powder puff eggs that I realized parents are so thrilled with the idea of their child going to college that they mutate into the classic optimistic Leave It To Beaver family life. As I was piling the organic spinach on my plate (which by the way only makes an appearance for prospective student weekend otherwise the daily lettuce looks a lot like the shredded paper lettuce I get on my chicken chalupa at Taco Bell), I noticed a high school senior look disgustedly into a pre-made Greek salad held hostage under a strong but firm film of oily dressing. She looked at her mother and said, “Oh MY god! Look how gross this is! I can't believe people eat this!” Then she gave me an pitiful apologetic look like I chose to come to this school based on food plan alone. But before another negative comment could be made, super mom swooped in and said, “But look honey you can make your own waffle! Sure the line is half an hour long, but mingle while you wait, make some new friends. Get a feel for this place! How exciting!” Besides over zealous optimism orgasming over Belgium waffles seems to be a side effect of visit weekend.

All of the prospective students were easily identifiable. Not because they were with fifty year olds flailing behind them, but because they were the only ones at brunch looking showered, refreshed, with hair done, not wearing pajamas, not hungover and weighed significantly less than the rest of us. Ah yes, it's quite common to reminisce of the times of when we all weighed our ideal weight. Before alcohol and excessive carbohydrates entered our blood stream and permanently settled themselves in our tummies. Growing wider rather than growing taller is a downside of college life, but if somehow someone could just invent a pill that could get all the excess fat to land in the ladies' bras instead of everywhere else all college communities could be a lot happier. But have you noticed how guys grow boobies in college too? We need a pill to get rid of those potential hairy lactating monsters too.

It's amazing how everyone wears their letters on prospective weekends too. Even the Greek honor societies were busting out hooded sweatshirt pride. Attempting to beckon high school seniors that by coming to this particular college you will help complete our rainbow when really it's saying to them, “I know high school has all of you separated into cliques, but here we're much more open and organized about it.”

I've noticed how people act differently when prospective students are milling about the campus. There are the kind who believe they are putting on a show and have to act out how cool college is—as if the high schoolers don't believe that moving away from their parents, drinking, and complete freedom isn't cool already. But these people who put on an act drive me crazy—they speak louder when a prospy passes and they're talking about sex just to reassure the high schooler what they're in for her and to reassure the parents that their little baby may quite possibly be knocked up if they don't have that condom talk soon. Then there are the people who just don't care—go on eating their powder eggs as if nothing has changed because they don't have to impress anyone this early in the afternoon because they're still hungover.

The only time you're supposed to show a prospy a good time is when you have to take them under your wing for a night. I've seen this nightmare of a job and want nothing to do with it. Freshman year I had some friends who thought this was the coolest job—until they realized that the girl didn't want to go out and party—all she wanted to do was go the orchestra concert, watch a movie and go straight to bed. Which is fine. I'm not judging them, but attempting to find the right words to tell her diplomatically that while she's sleeping on the floor (where you puked last weekend) she's on her own 'til brunch the next morning because there's no such thing as staying in on Saturday night unless it's the weekend before finals. Because you can't really say, have fun watching Legally Blonde, I'm going to go do something illegal! Bye! And then race out the door.

All guys do with a prospy is have him hang with whatever sports team he's on, drink beer, and try to find some freshman girl for him to hook up with. Such simple creatures. Such simple minds. Such complex beer breasts they've got to mask underneath their fleeces.

My roommate's claims she remembers a conversation with her friend at California Irvine about how the school puts a lot of calories and fat into its food because too many people have a fat complex and don't consume as much as we do here in the Midwest. So when they do eat, the food is loaded with fat. If anyone can confirm or deny this please let me know because my roommate can't remember whether of not this is true. But then again she also said that after a long night of drinking everyone looks skinner in the morning—yeah, probably because everything we ate all week was expelled violently from our bodies at four in the morning and now is still floating comfortably in the toilet bowl and adjoining sink.

On a final note I know that the entire state of Wisconsin is in mourning right now because Green Bay isn't going to the Superbowl. This is a hard and difficult time for you all and my sympathies are with you. But this weekend a prospy asked me what I was going to do after graduation and while I currently have no concrete plans I confidently told her that I was moving out West where it's warm and the men don't cry openly about football. And have pecs. Not small breasts.