When I started going to college two and a half years ago, my goals were simple: Go to class, find some friends and get decent grades. (“Become a spaceman” was on the list at one point, until I realized that the college no longer offers Spacemanology as a major.) Nowhere on that list did it say “Dress in women’s undergarments and parade yourself around in front of half the college.” And yet, that’s exactly what happened one cold October night in the auditorium.
It’s not every night that I decide to cross dress and strut around campus; I need a damn good reason, like Halloween or Tuesday or something. This whole thing started when I saw a poster in for the Rocky Horror Picture Show. Now, I’m no stranger to Rocky Horror. Thanks to my friend Meg, I’ve seen the film approximately 21,000 times, not counting half-viewings, times when I fell asleep while watching, or when we reenacted the entire movie from memory. Thinking she’d be excited that it was playing here on our very own campus, I went running to her dorm to tell her. But unfortunately, she had gone home for the weekend. Obviously, I had no choice but to keep running until I hit Rhode Island.
So at 3 a.m., after explaining to the very angry man with the shotgun who answered the door why I was there, Meg didn’t seem too thrilled about seeing the film. Later that day, as I watched her father start driving her back to the college and I began my walk back to Crimeburgh, I found myself a little disappointed that she wasn’t excited about seeing Rocky. By the time I got back home, however, I had put it out of my mind. I was concentrating on my feet. For some odd reason, it felt as if someone had set them on fire and stomped them at the same time; I still can’t figure out why for the life of me.
Fast forward to the Tuesday night before Rocky. As the last of the customers finished kicking me and spitting on my crumpled body, I left my retail job at the mall and began walking home. Suddenly, my cell phone rang. I had it on vibrate, so I began screaming, thinking a gaggle of tiny venomous beetles were trying to lay their menacing eggs in my thigh. After about 20 minutes of rolling around on the pavement trying to rid myself of the ominous insect invaders, I figured it out and answered the phone. It was Meg.
“We’re going to Rocky on Thursday and we’re dressing up,” she said.
“So I’m going as Brad?” I asked.
“No, you’re going as Janet,” she replied. A single tear rolled down my cheek and quickly froze to my face.
The event was a lot of fun. From behind, Sarah and the gang didn’t recognize me, so when I turned around, I was met with a chorus of laughter. In the costume contest, I won the prize for scariest costume. During the movie, we yelled awful things that would normally have gotten us thrown out of school or excommunicated altogether. You haven’t lived until you’ve dropped the F-bomb in front of fifty people you don’t know. When the movie ended, I found myself strutting around campus again, the icy October chill finding its way up my slip once more. Then I stopped mid-stride. I should have kept walking; I should have just gone home. But curiosity got the better of me. I had finally found a way in. I was finally going to see the inside of the female students only wonderland known as Wonka Hall.
Meg stood guard outside as I walked up to the security desk. In my best damsel in distress voice, I told the security guards how on my way back to my dorm, here in Wonka Hall, I had been attacked by sinister aliens who stole my clothing and ID card, so I’d need someone to help me get back into my dorm, here in Wonka Hall. Obviously, I could get some extra clothes in my dorm, here in Wonka Hall, and speak to someone about the attack the next morning. Halfway through my story, the female security guard got up and left, but the male guard was firmly fixated on my story, as it was apparently being told by my cleavage.
The male guard said he needed to consult the security office about the attack. Sensing that my plan was about to go horribly awry, I resorted to my back-up plan. Leaning down so the security guard could get an eye full of my wash-rag stuffed bra, I said seductively, “You know you want some of this.” Before he could answer, the sound of 14 separate sirens blared into the room from outside.
“Sirens are so romantic,” the guard said.
Meg burst through the door, screaming, “The cops are here! Run!” The female security guard must have called them while I was telling my story. So out the door we ran, still in our high heels.
I had never spent the night in jail before. However, I must say it turned out to be a good thing. After Sarah came and bailed us all out, laughing hysterically the entire time, I went home and found my list of goals for my four years of college. Grabbing a pencil, I put a check next to the box marked, “Spend the night in jail after botching an attempt to sneak into the girls’ dorm.”