In high school, I never found myself as the partying type. My idea of a fun night consisted of staying in with my two best friends and binge-watching whatever Netflix drama caught our eye. When I started college, I promised myself that I would seek new experiences and bear witness to the classic college escapades I had seen on television. At the beginning of my second year in college, I finally got the chance to visit my first college club.
On a searing Saturday afternoon at the end of syllabus week, I made a visit to my boyfriend up in Tallahassee, Florida.
After a slow start to our day, we made our way to his friend’s apartment to hang out. For about an hour, we sat as just six college kids with nothing to do on a Saturday afternoon. Which, of course, meant that we should go out to a club.
Clad in my Hollister jeans and American Eagle tank top, I made my way downtown with my boyfriend and his friends. As we walked along the street, the other couple in our group began talking in charged whispers while their hands danced in dramatic motions. The closer we got to the club, the more I felt like I should avert my eyes from their conversation. By the time we reached the entrance, the girlfriend was briskly walking to the car while her boyfriend scurried behind. That should have indicated my first hint that maybe this was a bad idea.
Yet, I, my boyfriend and his two other friends dove into the club scene. Once I got inside, the idea of clubbing quickly lost its excitement. Without a legal ID, I couldn’t drink. With a relationship, I couldn’t flirt. I wasn’t sure what I could do. After about thirty minutes of wandering around aimlessly, my boyfriend and I decided that a bench where we could observe others was the best place for us.
Eventually, the quarreling couple once again decided to grace our presence. After their return, the six of us found ourselves in the outdoor area called the “beer garden.” Where the flowers lacked, college students drunkenly packed into a picketed pasture by the dozens.
After a few minutes of awkward side steps and invasive bumping, we decided the beer garden denied us the refreshing qualities of a real one.
While trying to escape the faux garden, tragedy struck. There was only one entrance to and from the beer garden, and it involved one narrow staircase. After about two minutes of standing in the stairway, it became clear that the traffic of humans was backed up. I never felt more hostility or discomfort than when dozens of drunk college students gridlocked me as they all tried to push through others and balance their drinks at the same time.
To get through the chaos, I gripped my boyfriend’s shirt and prayed that the misery would end soon. After 30 minutes of small upward steps, we fell out of the rabbit hole. The air stopped smelling like sweat and hormones, and I could once again move my elbows without distinctly feeling another person’s rib cage.
After I gulped up the fresh air, I decided that I was finished with the club.
Since we started our partying (and my discomfort) in the bright light of the daytime, it appeared only dusk when I finally conquered the club scene and made my exit. Tired and finished with college students, my boyfriend and I found ourselves at Taco Bell picking up dinner. I delighted in my tacos while I settled in on the couch with Netflix serenading my ears.
The club did not follow through with what I expected. College movies and shows hyped it up to seem like a never-ending place of fun and entertainment. While I looked forward to my first chance to club in college with excitement, I ended up let down by the drunken crowds and packed venue. The entire experience made me realize that while the occasional outing may feel like a nice change of pace, I was content with a quiet night in too. Besides, tacos sound like a safer bet than tequila.
College Magazine does not promote underage drinking. Please drink responsibly.