All opinions are gathered from subjects those 21 years+.
With a wallet full of Christmas money, a suitcase loaded down with new sweaters and “going-out” clothes alike, and a backpack stocked with color-coded pens and organized notebooks, you’re ready to start syllabus week.
For most, syllabus week in the spring semester is a little bit different than that of the fall. Why? Because over the course of August to December, lots of people had birthdays. And lots of people turned 21.
But like many things at Notre Dame, the dynamic of syllabus week never changes. Routine is key and there’s a clear way of “doing syllabus week.” Besides, you know, getting organized for classes and all those un-important things that are totally, completely, actually very important.
Pshh…whatever.
Here’s how it works:
You roll down The Ave sometime over the weekend and choose not to go out Friday or Saturday, spending the entire time cleaning and organizing your room because “this is going to be the most productive semester ever!”
Sunday/Monday evening thing is awkward. Notre Dame students don’t start classes until Tuesday, so they’re all stoked to head to Finni’s on Sunday night. Meanwhile, it’s half and half with the Belles. But most of you end up at the warehouse anyway. You decide that you LOVE Finni’s thanks to the dance floor, the jukebox you got to be in charge of, and the Belles you’re with.
Finni’s was so fun and you just can’t believe it! Now you look forward to Wednesdays.  Â
Monday just no one goes out. Simply…guess that’s everyone’s “break.”
And then the week really begins…
Tuesday night: O’Rourke’s for karaoke and embarrassing yourself in front of mostly upperclassmen with a handful of under-agers thrown in for good measure. You get there at 10:00 because the line outside in negative temperatures isn’t exactly the way you want to die. After a round of belting High School Musical and Kelly Clarkson (and Clover Quarts), you skip over to Brother’s with your senior friends where suddenly you’re everyone’s “little” and your birthday was three days ago. Whether you like it or not, cranberry vodkas are being thrown your way. And you better not complain. Marky Mark takes you home as you tell him how your “bigs” corrupted you and he has no idea what you’re talking about…but you get free Mardi Gras beads and jam out to “A Thousand Miles” anyway.
Wednesday night: Finni’s. Again. All your Belles who weren’t there on Sunday are there today and ready to have a good time. You post up on the perch and watch the newcomers walk through the door until that gets boring and creepy. So you gravitate towards the DJ to request “Steal My Girl”. You bribe him by snapping a pic with your selfie stick and then suddenly, you’re everyone’s best friend.  Seniors dance around with those $15 bottles of champagne and your guy friends play big brother with the intentions of keeping you away from all the handsome guys who need formal dates and haven’t seen a girl in three weeks. They’re all at Finni’s, they’re all good-looking, and they’re all really, really drunk.
Thursday night: What’s Fever, again? (you try to sound cool…but you know you’ll end up there, anyways) Brother’s is the move for a cheap pregame and stuffy mingling. You get just enough of a buzz and watch the suave guys in the corner play pool long enough until their suggestion of the notion of Fever actually sounds appealing. You laugh at yourself because just a month ago Fever was your favorite place, but now that you’re old and sophisticated, you’re, like, so over it. But you go anyway, you drink the $2 drinks anyway, and you roll your eyes at everyone anyway. But this time – you take the Brother’s-Feve party bus and you get to walk through the front door. Pshh…what’s VIP anyway? And then, after about an hour and a half of talking to the same people over and over again about the same things, you realize Fever is not what dreams are made of. (again…)
You find yourself sitting on the windowsill of Vesuvio’s eating a greasy piece of pizza wondering who won the gun fight that clearly once occurred according to the state of the walls surrounding you. Literally.
Friday night: The Backer. Besides the fact that you now have more quarters than you know what do with (gotta go to know…), everyone tells you you’ll fall in love with this little hole-in-the-middle-of-an-intersection. And you totally, totally did.
Saturday night: Lol who even is CJ and why does he own a bar? You kill it at Finni’s…yet again and love every second. The crowd is in and out and not as vibrant as Wednesday because real classes are starting to become a scary, harsh reality. You balance your night by splitting a pitcher of whatever and discussing your plans of being a good student next week. You’re totally not getting drunk tonight. Gosh, how mature of you. (Fast forward an hour to you jammin’ on stage with your best friends and the selfie stick…no regrets.)
And then it’s over. Your wallet is empty, detox lemon water is your best friend, and your room is absolutely trashed. The friends you re-connected with, the people you sent packing, and your formal date all have one thing in common: they got sylly.
Because syllabus week #wins.Â
Cover photo, GIF 1, GIF 2, GIF 3, GIF 4, GIF 5, GIF 6, GIF 7
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