I went to a frat party once.

I know. Me. I, of all people, attended a frat party. It was terrible (no offense, guys).

It was the first week of freshman year, and I had just finished the painful experience of sorority recruitment. (I’m not in a sorority. Lol.) My feet were blistered, I hadn’t slept in days and I was with a bunch of strangers, but I thought to myself, “What the heck? When else will you experience something like this?” Thus, the evening began.

My roommate and I readied ourselves for the night’s excursion by applying too much makeup and dressing in our best “party” outfits. After a quick mirror check, we made our way out the door and met up with some friends down the hall.

Then came the long trek from Schurz Hall to the first fraternity house. I honestly know nothing about fraternities, so I have no recollection of where we went. However, I do recall walking in the house and turning immediately back around after the group leader had deemed the party lame.

After the long walk to Greek Town, the group decided to head in the opposite direction to one of the frat houses on College Avenue. The night had just begun and we were already miserable and complaining about sore feet. I was ready for the night to end, but little did I know, this was just the beginning.

We finally made it to the second fraternity and entered the house. According to the boys at the door, the house was in trouble for a previous violation, meaning that the cops would periodically check the house on weekends. If I’d been uncomfortable before, I was now terrified.

Upon arriving to the actual party scene, the seven or so girls I was with decided it would be in our best interest to separate, causing me to panic on the inside. My hyperventilating was suddenly interrupted and then resumed twice as badly when a few of us were shoved into a small bedroom full of futons, boys and alcohol.

Now here’s a little tidbit about myself. Alcohol makes me really uncomfortable. Call me a wimp, a prude or a sissy, but I don’t drink. Therefore, when some random guys began passing around vodka and chasing it with Monster, I lost a little bit of my small-town girl innocence just watching.

As the night wore on, everyone around me became more and more incoherent. It’d gotten to the point where I was enjoying myself because everyone sounded so ridiculous.

Suddenly, all my friends got up and decided it was time to make their way to the dance floor (i.e., a sketchy room with blue lights on the walls). The room was filled with bodies swaying to the rhythm of the blaring music. I found a nice couch to sit and people-watch. There were a couples making out, some guys chugging a boxed wine and people shoving in/out of the room.

While I sat on the dingy, gray sofa, I decided to count friends. I knew that three had left, but of the other four I felt responsible for, only three were in the room. I had seen Missing Friend #4 just moments before dancing with a guy, but now they were gone. Before the night even began, the girl and I had discussed not letting friends out of sight, so I sprung up off the couch to ask around.

No one knew what was going on. I shook my friends out of their drunken stupor until they could comprehend the severity of the situation. A college freshman girl was lost at her first frat party.

We shot into action, making our way through every room. When we came to the last door, it was locked. A guy was walking by and said that our friend was in there, so we pounded on the door. After a few agonizing moments, she opened the door. She was fine. Just talking with an old friend. All that panic for nothing.

As we walked home, I pledged to never go to a frat party again. My shoes were soaked with alcohol, my dress smelled disgusting and I can’t handle the pressure of being Mama Bird.