To say that I used to dread Fridays and Saturdays would be an understatement. With the dissolution of academic obligations and the increase of blood alcohol contents, weekends always seemed to bring nothing but messes. Sunday mornings inevitably came with a red sea of Solo cups, crushed beer cans, and an unrecognizable sticky substance that colonized atop the countertops over the past two days. I woke up in a cold sweat each morning and dreaded having to stare at the chaos blanketing the carpet. But over the past four years, I’ve slowly come to terms with the predictability of the Friday rager, Saturday tailgate, and Sunday cleanup routine. I’m a modest model, not quiet modern – but you can just call me mod.
I’m not going to lie; I used to be a neat freak. I fully admit it. It was something that gave me anxiety everyday. It must have had to do with the abundance of females in my life at the time. But now, after living with boys for so long, I’ve learned to look past the dirt and grime and to recognize how much fun we have together. It also doesn’t hurt that that I have thirty years under my belt to show these boys my ways.
You may see me as just a red architectural structure not dissimilar to a barn or trailer. But don’t let the mice that live within my basement or humble looks deceive you. They keep me company during finals week when no one else wants to visit me and I am much more than that.
I am the modest stage on which your social interactions are propagated. Each Friday and Saturday the curtains are lifted to a new production. With the changing of nights comes the changing of casts. Some members are exceptionally suited, some poorly cast. Some performances are worthy of standing ovations; others should be, and often are, forgotten. I am not a director by nature but I can’t help but push for the shy pinnie-clad boy who just wants to talk to the girl in neon tank and yoga pants top standing by my crumbling stairs. I am not a playwright but I just wish I could write a script for the stumbling boy by the refrigerator who seems to have forgotten how to speak English. I am not a lighting designer but I wish I could put spotlights on the girl in the royal blue dress dancing in the corner who only wants to be noticed. I am not a sound director, but I wish I could change Gagnam Style, which has been playing for the last twenty minutes. Alas, I am only the stage. But where is a memorable production without the stage?
So don’t think I can’t hear what you say about me; that I’m just “temporary”, that I’m “worse than a frat house”, that “you’re glad you never got me." Believe me, I’m the best thing you never had.
Who else gets to be the omnipresent figure over the Friday night toga party you were invited to through a friend’s older brother’s teammate? Who else sees you confidently trying to make your way over to the sophomore girls who seem to only want to dance with themselves? Who is the only one who knows exactly where you hid your coat underneath the stairs behind an old shoebox? Who else knows that you just slyly snuck a shot in the kitchen by yourself? Who else knows that you stumbled here accidently because you still don’t know how my mod friends and I are numbered? Who is the only one who knows exactly what goes down in the shower closet? Who is the only one that knows you actually don’t know anyone here? Don’t worry. Your secrets are safe; just as long as you’re not spreading spread rumors about me. Remember, your social world is my stage and you are just an actor in my modest production.