The True-Life Adventures of Sherri

Misunderstood Repressed Post Sorority Girl

Understand that a sorority girl is a person, with, like, ya know, feelings. Hath not a Tri-Delt eyes? If you prick her, does she not bleed? If she drinks bad Keystone, does she not spew? Here’s what really happens in the few cubic inches of one sorority girl’s head…

Friday evening, 6 p.m.
Dinner at the house; scrumptious. I mistook Maria, the token Hispanic pledge for the cook. Whoopsie. Felt great anguish at being so callous; about to apologize, but what’s the use? Apologies can’t make up for years of racism, and besides, she was wearing totally ugly shoes — I mean, even the cook wouldn’t wear green suede flats.

Kristy joined me in our nightly ritual of binge-purging. Someone had finished the ipecac, so we made due with shoving our fingers down our throats. As I hugged the toilet, I thought, `Sherri, you know not what you do! Don’t give in to air-brushed images and a patriarchal society that says a pre-pubescent body with huge knockers is the desired norm.’ My soul cried out, but then I glanced at Kristy, who has smaller thighs than mine, and I hurled like a volcano.

Tried to write a politically relevant sonnet; gave up when the only rhyme I found for Haiti' wasWarren Beatty.’

7:45 p.m.
Talked to Mumsie and Dad. Conversation broke off when they found out that I’m not going pre-med. Why, oh why must I always conform to their standards? My calling is to be a National-Book-Award winning writer and the nation’s poet laureate. Tried to stanch my bitterness by reading. But as I was flipping through an old issue of Vogue, I caught sight of Maya Angelou, Toni Morrison and Flannery O’Connor. Grossness!! They’re all either black, old, or dead. Toyed with the idea of becoming the first well-dressed and cute National-Book-Award winning writer and poet laureate, but then decided against it. This country is just way too shallow to sense the depth and richness beneath my smooth twenty-year-old skin and Club Monaco clothes.

Called Mumsie back and told her my decision. We squealed in mutual delight and spent an hour picking out colors for the waiting room of my practice. Still, my soul is uneasy. Oh, what to do?

8:30 p.m.
Watched Three's Company.' Had to leave, so disgusted was I with the infantilizing portrayal of women on the show. Terri, one of the older girls in the house asked, "What's wrong , Sherri? It's just a show." When, oh when will my sisters rise up against this? Went to my room; fortunately, Kristy had tapedModels, Inc.’ and we watched that instead.

9:50 p.m.
Got ready for party at KEG. Saw Mindy, the overweight pledge, wearing the same sweater I had. Changed. Then had to coordinate my lipstick, socks and scrunchie with the new shirt. Grabbed keys, lipstick, and put the back-up scrunchies on each wrist. God, does the pressure never end?

11:06 p.m.
Arrived at party. Immediately downed six cups of fine beer. Went to go dance wildly, then felt sick and oppressed. Disgusted, I tried to leave, but ended up freaking between two mildly attractive guys. Why, oh why must I always settle? Depressed, I escaped to the balcony, where I beat my head against a post and wailed my anguish into the night.

I was reciting Dylan Thomas when Bob, the house president, came out to see how I was doing. Touched by his concern, I got ready for deep-n- meaningful conversation. His first comment was, “So you drunk or what? Wanna beer?” But the conversation picked up, and we started talking about things that really mattered, like his dad’s business, his dad’s car, and his major. Things were going well, so I tried to genuinely connect with him. “Bob,” I asked, “Do you ever get tired of it all?” He looked puzzled, then contented, tried to speak. Unfortunately, the only comprehensible statement he made before passing out was, “Hey… you wearing a Wonderbra?” Amazed at the superficiality of life, I headed home.

2:30 a.m.
Wrote a seven-act play called “Glasnost –The Sherri Cycles.” Watched the last drunken revellers from the party straggle home — the readjustment of underwear, the falling baseball hats and the stains wiped off J. Crew clothing. I marvelled, thinking that moments ago, I was one of that immature band.

It’s a new day, Sherri, I thought to myself. From now on things will be different! No more putting up with immature frat boys, bad beer, idiotic parties with young idiots writhing like snakes in heat, petty in-fighting in the house over who’s the blondest (naturally), squabbles over clothing, monitoring my fat intake like a rabid German shepard — all of it, finis. Now begins my life as a new woman. Content, I fell asleep.

Saturday morning, 8:30 a.m.
Woke up earlier than usual; caught the morning paper before anybody else. Flipping through the Datebook section, saw something so amazing I had to close my eyes and reopen them. A ray of light shone through the periwinkle-colored mini-blinds in the breakfast nook — it was like a miracle…

Today & Sunday
20% off all vests
Free parking in rear

I immediately repented of my ways. I’d seen the light. How could I have ever strayed?

I snuck upstairs to wake Kristy. Discontent no more, I know my true path. I am, I have been, I always will be a sorority girl. Never again shall I stray.