"And so then, she proceeds to turn her entire family against me because I'm friends with Andrew. She made it seem like me and Andrew had a thing, but like no!" I rattled off the conclusion to the tale of the last 'thing' I've had with a guy as Whitney and I made the trek back up campus to the site of the Girl's part of Girls and Guys night, "Which was a ridiculous accusation in general, Andrew's engaged and like seven years older than me, and the worst part was it was coming from the one in the family who was supposed to be my friend!"
My old friend Jen's deceit was fresh in my mind, as only a few weeks ago the truth had come out that she had somehow convinced her entire family that I was trying to steal her brother, and my best friend, Andrew from his fiancee Gabi. She had even forced our mutual friend Andrew Kang to essentially chose between being friends with me and being friends with her. It was kind of the biggest load of bullshit I had encountered in a long time.
"That's so dumb," Whitney agreed.
"Both Andrews told me they thought it was all stupid, and as far as Ian goes, it's been a while since I've talked to him, but that's totally ok with me," we wound our way up to the house where we could hear laughter mixing with the flurries of snow from the upstairs window. It was a chilly January night, but after tossing back a few quick shots, neither of us felt the stings of a Michigan winter. The entire story of my brief but juicy affair with Ian had spilled willingly from my lips after four shots of peach Ciroc.
"I can not believe that I'm underdressed," I said as I slipped off my Converse inside the door of the house. I had learned a crucial fact a few minutes too late: the entire ballroom team dresses up for parties. Skirts, dresses, heels, bling. My jeggings and tank weren't nearly on par. This was my kind of group. If people were out-dressing me (and I was chronically overdressed) I would fit right in. I was falling more and more in love with this team by the second.
And my the glass of wine. It was only a moment until there was a glass of white wine in my hands and I chatting with a new friend.
"Ok girls, lets practice one more time!"
I couldn't help but smile as I set my glass of wine down and found my place next to Whitney.
Guys and Girl's night was a deep-rooted tradition of the ballroom team: the girls and guys all split up to talk about ballroom things before getting together and letting the usual drunken dancing and general greatness that is a ballroom party ensue. It was tradition for the guys to crash girl's night, but this year, the girls were going for something new and crashing guys night. And together, we had planned a dramatic entrance:
Someone turned on the stereo and Aqua's "Barbie Girl" and the fifty girls launched into our hilarious, raunchy dance routine. The giggling was almost louder than the music as we practiced our dance.
As 10:00pm approached, the girls swapped their heels for snow boots and slipped bottles of wine into their bags. Our destination was on the complete opposite end of campus, but luckily for us, we only had to wait a few minutes before piling onto one of Michigan's iconic blue busses.
It was like a scene straight out of one of those teen cult movies: fifty tipsy, well-dressed girls taking over an empty bus in the early hours of the night. It wasn't long until we broke into a chant about being the girls of the ballroom team, much to the alarm of the bus driver and the maybe two people on the bus who weren't on the ballroom team.
"We're the ballroom dance team, the raiders of the night! We're dirty, slutty bitches who'd rather fuck than fight!" I shouted along with the rest of the bus. It was a strangely out of body experience: this was something so college-like, so cool, so normal. But to me, this was incredibly special. I was riding a bus to a party surrounded by glamorous, fun girls to join our male equivalents, "We'll take our rusty trophies and shove them up your ass. Highty, tight, Christ all-mighty, who the fuck are we? Dick! Suck! Cock! Fuck! WE'RE THE BALLROOM TEAM!"
When the bus reached its destination, we trooped off down the street, avoiding slippery patches of ice and the occasional snow bank, everyone giggling and talking until we reached an oddly familiar street corner.
We all fell silent as we creeped down John Street, the sight of the infamous ballroom house, and the site of my first ballroom party a few weeks back. Someone hooked up a pair of speakers, someone else knocked on the door, the girls shed their coats, and the guys piled out on the lawn.
'Barbie Girl' inturrupted the peaceful quiet on that cold Saturday night as we launched into our raunchy dance in the middle of the street.
Completely out of place, and hopefully not because of the copious amounts of Ciroc and wine I had already consumed, I felt like I was about to cry. Here I was, in the middle of Michigan's notoriously horrible winters, standing on a college town street, dancing suggestively in a tank top, surrounded by girls having as much fun as I was. It was like a scene out of a movie, and I felt a rare bit of moisture tickle my eyelashes. This was what college was all about, and I was no longer just hearing my friends' stories of their wild, picture-esq nights; I was living it and loving every single moment.