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Hasty to change topics, I use the age-old deflection technique: compliments.
“I really like what you did with your hair today, Stella.” Working like a charm, my roommate beams and proceeds to give me a list of all the braiding styles she can do. I wasn’t lying with the compliment, her platinum mane looks extra gorgeous today. The French braid running along the top right-side ends with an invisible elastic, the rest of it flowing freely down to the tip of her white cargo pants. This girl must own every style of black tank top ever made, because the top she is sporting today is identical to the one from move-in day except for the criss-cross straps going down the back.
If I was impressed by Stella’s arm definition, I am in awe of her sculpted back. You can’t tell where my arms connect to my shoulders, let alone have a map of gym-made markers sectioning off each muscle group in my back. I feel exhausted just looking at it.
Taking a look at my own outfit choice, I am pleased I went with an oversized Blink-182 concert t-shirt. All back and shoulders are covered, so I don’t need to worry about looking like a limp noodle next to my fitness model roommate. The mom jeans my shirt is tucked into were once a pale blue, but now can only be described as distressed. They were originally frayed back in tenth grade, but after many years of use, the frays became… well, holes. Hence why I call these my favourite pair of “ripped” jeans.
My self-assessment comes to an abrupt halt as we reach the foyer. I always thought movies were prone to exaggeration but it turns out Taber University likes to go even bigger. And by bigger, I mean brighter. As in hundreds of different colour schemes assaulting my eyeballs. Organized in columns, rows and rows of booths line the foyer, each with their own explosion of neon banners and posters representing some sort of club theme.
At least that’s what I think is going on. The noise level has hit a point where it might be affecting my visual discernment.
Somehow, I manage to hear Stella squeal over the deafening noise. What my roommate lacks in height, she more than makes up for in energy. I feel small hands grab my arm and next thing I know I’m being dragged to the booth in the farthest corner.
Up close, it’s a bit easier to figure out the individual themes. This one appears to be a cannabis club, with cartoon leaves winking at me from bright green posters. There is only one guy working the booth and as we approach he throws us the peace sign.
“Ready to join the hotbox gang? Been dying to unleash your inner pothead? No problem my dudes. Just leave your email and I’ll send you the addy for our weekly doobie break.”
Biting my lip to keep from laughing, I sneak a glance at Stella who unsubtly coughs into her hand. “So, um, the gang just meets up and gets high together once a week? No meetings or real… purpose to this club?”
We wait a good five seconds for the doobie master to rabidly shake his blond locks back and forth. Not sure if that’s a no, or if he’s trying to find the answer buried deep in his skull.
“Homies, you’ve got this all wrong. Mary Janeisthe purpose of this club. Uni gets hella stressful, and like when you need a quick trip, company with fellow hash lovers only makes itbetter.” Abruptly shoving his chair back, our new friend attempts to stand up on the chair but wisely wobbles back to the ground. He turns a bloodshot gaze on us, placing a hand over his heart.
“CanDoobies For Life isn’t aboutus. It’s about smoking for those whocan’t. Like our poor brothers down in the US of A. Doobies aren’t evenlegaldown there for everyone. Can you imagine? Fucking cruel, man. Fucking cruel.”
Barely holding it together, Stella nods in sympathy. “That is unfortunate. Well, we best be going, but thank you for your time, er…”
“Chaz. Sick t-shirt by the way. Blink rocks.” Throwing me another peace sign, I give Chaz a feeble thumbs up in return.
A fresh wave of students descends upon the CanDoobies booth, and we make our escape just as Chaz begins his welcoming spiel once more. “Looking for a good-time high? Need a doobie brother or two? Just leave your email here…”
“Oh. My. God.” Stella claps a hand over her mouth as we pull away from the booth.
“Did you see him trying to stand on that chair? I thought we’d have to call the emergency help line.” I bend over, clutching my stomach in laughter.
“Forget the chair. How about the fact he calls himself Chaz? His real name is probably Chase but he decided to shorten it and add z, so it looks cooler.” The attempt to straighten myself goes out the window as another wave of laughter hits me. Wiping tears from my eyes, I fan my face to cool my cheeks down.
“We’ve already hit the highest booth. It’s a downhill trip from here.” Stella shakes her head at my terrible puns and links her arm through mine.
Watching the endless mass weave through booths, you wouldn’t think Taber is one of Alberta’s smallest universities. Students of all ages appear to be streaming in from every direction, immediately becoming part of the surrounding chaos. Chatter and laughter fill the air, as if the university itself has sprung to life and hums in tune with the student body. Yet somehow, the incoherent parts come together to form a sort of united whole.
Overwhelming? One hundred percent. Yet, strangely fascinating at the same time. Boys and girls of all shapes and sizes bounce from table to table, making conversation and connections with complete strangers. The dread from earlier feels present but faded. I think the neon overload and club-joining atmosphere has naturally released some of my tension.
Could also be that everyone seems so… comfortable in their own skin. A foreign concept to me, but one that warms the heart to see.
While I have managed to avoid leaving my email at any of the booths we’ve looked at so far, Stella has somehow signed up for every single one. Well, with the one exception of Chaz’s booth.
If I’m being honest, most of the clubs seem interesting, if not fun, and if I wasn’t so paranoid Taber will turn into a re-enactment of high school, I probably would sign up for a couple of them. Heck, I can say with absolute certainty that if I wasn’t so anxious, I definitely would have left my email at the Punk Rockers booth.
Giving a shoutout for anyone with a love for alternative music, the booth features monthly get-togethers where live music, trivia games, and overall audience participation are encouraged. The spokesperson working the booth even had on the same Blink t-shirt as me; if I was a believer in signs, that would have been my cue to join. Yet, even after Stella wrote down her email and followed them on social media, I couldn’t bring myself to do the same.
High school taught me one thing and one thing only: I don’t belong. So, there’s no point in signing myself up for disappointment in hope this one might be different. Because it won’t be. I’ve been down this road before and it always ends the same way.
Despite my commitment to avoid all club commitments, I’m still thinking about the Punk Rockers four booths down. Hard not to, when I’m doing my best not to grimace at the swing dance poster in front of me. Do people actually sign up for this?
To my utmost horror, Stella throws her name down for this one as well, oblivious to the future embarrassment she will be facing. I gawk at her, watching as she happily turns to me and tries for the tenth time to convince me to join.
“You’ve got to give this one a try, Lou. Think about it, we could be partners! Bet I could easily swing you from hip to hip.” Stella mimics the motion, tossing an invisible person from one hip to the next. Applause breaks out from the freshmen a few tables over and Stella drops into a bow for her admirers. I’m still staring at her in horror when she takes my hand and leads me to the corner where the line for free snacks snakes around the corner.
