Opinion: Drowned Dignity
The beer’s gone, but the pitcher is full of shame
Published: Monday, October 14, 2013
Updated: Monday, October 14, 2013 23:10
There are, at the very least, two incredibly stupid people in the world. The first one is that guy who looked around at his buddies after receiving his Aggie ring and said, “You know what I want to do with this symbol of academic achievement? I want to put it in a giant pitcher of beer, chug it and vomit all over a smelly ol’ bathroom stall.”
Do you know what I said to that? I said, “Oh, that sounds like a lovely idea! How charming! How delightful!”
Which makes me the second stupid person.
To be fair to the first nameless idiot, I’m probably the dumbest member of this pair. There’s a rumor floating around that ring dunks actually originated when soldiers would dunk their medals in beer, a tradition that would transition well to a campus with a strong military and alcohol presence.
I can bet you most of these soldiers probably weighed more than 115 pounds and could reach the top shelf of their kitchen cabinets without having to stand on their tiptoes. Chugging five beers may be a big deal for a strapping young lad, but it’s a guaranteed puke fest for a girl who sometimes has a hard time getting automatic doors to register her presence.
As I was spewing my dignity into the thick grass between gulps of beer, I had a miserable, undignified realization. Even after I have had an adequate amount of time to process my actions, it still stands true — I am a disappointment to my parents.
Some will say I did it all for the love of tradition, but it’s time for me to come clean about that. I’ve already told you how much I weigh, so I’m going to let you in on another secret — if there was a club for two-percenters, I would be president. That is, of course, if I actually cared enough to show up to meetings.
I have never put a penny on Sully and I feel like a dirty hippie fraud every time I try to start one of those extra peppy emails with “Howdy!” I have accepted that I will never be able to get “Chig-gar-roo-gar-rem” out correctly. I honestly don’t even remember the last time I sang the War Hymn. So why did I decide the one tradition worth upholding was the one that involved upchucking?
In case you haven’t gathered, I threw up quite a bit.
And if you think it had to be the peer pressure that set me guzzling and gagging, you can just stop right there. I am physically incapable of jumping on bandwagons. I think it is because I am so uncoordinated.
According to the University’s Alcohol and Drug Education Program, if someone of my size would have kept that alcohol down, their coordination and judgment would have been somewhere between “very impaired” and “extremely impaired.”
This is not okay, considering my natural sober state lies somewhere between “plain old regular impaired” and “that’s right, she fell down both flights of stairs.” Put a pitcher of beer in me and I’m lying somewhere above the “newly hatched turtle who is missing a leg and a half” line.
I purposely risked discomfort and alcohol poisoning and awkward Monday-morning eye contact. Why? Does the tradition really have a hold on me, or I have truly become one of those after-school special tragedies? What possessed me to make that fateful decision, I’ll never know.
Of course, maybe my life choices weren’t the problem. It could just be the execution I’m truly ashamed of. After all, it took me a solid 12 minutes of pain and agony to finish that pitcher of beer.
It’s one thing to be ashamed of doing something stupid. It’s another thing entirely to do that stupid thing poorly.
I just hope I can live with myself.