I had a meltdown before my 20th birthday; I was officially too old. I played Neil Young’s Sugar Mountain a gazillion times, breaking down at the lyrics: “You can’t be 20 on Sugar Mountain….”
I wailed aloud, my voice completely clogged with tears, “you’re leaving there toooo soooon!”
I believed deep in my soul that I was leaving childhood much too early; I did not want to grow up. Twenty felt like I was trading a roller coaster ride for a desk job.
My parents told me not to be so sad: “your twenties are a wonderful time of life!” And my friends thought 20 was a fine age: “one more year till adulthood!” they exclaimed giddily.
I was often told not to feel what I felt.
To squash my feelings, I used alcohol. On my 20th birthday, I drank myself into oblivion.
It was the beginning of the school year, so students had just arrived on campus. My new roommate, Gayle, and I didn’t know each other well, but we had planned a fun year.
By my junior year in college, though, I was a holy terror. While my sophomore year roommate had deemed me irritable, and the dean had deemed me a problem drinker, poor Gayle had no idea what baggage I carried.
We drank at the Hood, I think. I don’t remember much beyond birthday shots and loud voices. I don’t remember who was there, or how I got back to my dorm. I don’t remember when or where I passed out.
And I was blissfully unaware that I could have died that night.
Gayle, however, was hyper-aware. I blacked out, then passed out … then repeatedly vomited in my sleep.
I don’t know how she did it, but Gayle somehow stripped me of my clothes, my blankets, my sheets and pillowcases. Gayle spent the night making sure I didn’t choke to death on my own vomit. And somehow the room was all clean when I finally woke the next day.
I want to be very clear about this sad fact: at 20, I had no idea that this was a dangerous episode in my life.
I didn’t know until years later about all the people who die of alcohol poisoning, who choke on their own vomit, who never see the light of day again.
I sincerely hope I expressed my gratitude to my new roommate who, in our first week together, not only saved my life but cleaned up the disgusting mess I’d made without a single complaint. I could not have thanked her sufficiently.
I think about this often. My response to this night, and this new roommate, was to bury my shame in more alcohol. I drank more than ever that year and spent many, many nights in other rooms, partially to avoid Gayle. We managed to share a room for the remainder of the year, but I tried to never be there.
Looking back, I realize that I mentally dehumanized Gayle to make my life easier. We had little in common. She was generous and caring and sweet to a fault. And I was selfish and harsh and pushy, like a lurking sea monster.
Gayle deserved better than a puking, lurking sea monster. But she stuck it out, and I owe her my life.
To say that I remember my first blackout would be an oxymoron. But I do.
A blackout is what happens when someone is drinking, awake and conscious – but the drinker doesn’t remember anything later. A fragmentary blackout happens because so much alcohol is consumed, the brain’s hippocampus can’t transfer memories from short-term to long-term. So I would be walking around, talking to people, doing whatever I would normally do in a drunken stupor, but when I sobered up a little, I would have zero recollection of what I’d done.
I drank with a lot of college friends who had blackouts. Until it happened to me, though, I didn’t believe it was real. My friends would say, “What did I do last night?” And I would tell them, not believing they didn’t know. I thought it was a game so we could replay our fun evening.
But no.
The first time I lost a piece of my life was during a game of Uno.
During summer, I went back to college to visit friends who were staying on campus all summer. I was thrilled to be back on my safe (legal drinking age) stomping grounds, with no classes to get in the way of my drinking. I don’t remember where – or how long – I stayed.
But I remember being sprawled on the 50-yard line in our college football stadium under the stars, a beer in one hand, staring at the night sky and feeling like the entire world belonged to me.
Ah, youth.
And during the day, I played Uno for hours with my friends. There was some kind of drinking “rule” – like, everybody drank when someone discarded an 8 – so we were all pretty plastered. There are a lot of eights in Uno.
Then – poof! – suddenly I was in a bathroom stall, sitting on the toilet, staring at the floor and wondering if the tiles were actually swirling, or if the movement was in my imagination.
“Kirsten!” Someone banged on the door. “What are you doing in there?”
Apparently I’d been gone for some time. I don’t remember deciding to leave the game, or if the game was over when I left. I don’t remember needing a restroom. I don’t remember anything between sitting there playing cards and watching the floor tiles swirl unnervingly at my feet.
If it had only been a minute or two, it would still have been a scary thing – but the people knocking on the door made it worse.
“You’ve been gone half an hour!” they said. “We’ve been waiting for you to play cards!”
“There’s no way!” I said. “I just got here!”
They had no reason to lie about the amount of time I’d been gone. And I had no memory of that entire half-hour of my life. Did I pass out on the toilet? It seemed unlikely – if for no other reason than I’d have probably fallen off.
But I’d been doing something for half an hour, and no one – not a single soul – could tell me where I’d been or what I had been doing.
Briefly I considered that I could have been dead and no one would have known – including me. I had no memory of anything that happened during that time frame and I’m just lucky that I didn’t decide to take a little drive, jump in a swimming pool, or wander into oncoming traffic.
Instead I wandered into a toilet stall.
It was interesting to me that I had no memory – fascinating, even. After my first blackout, though, I started having them more frequently – which lasted for years. The first one is the only one I remember. After that, blackouts just became another price to pay.
I’ve heard it said that, for everyone, there is The One who got away. You know … The One who etched the word “forever” into your heart, but somehow disappeared before forever had a chance to start…?
That One.
I first saw The One as I sat crammed into a crowded dorm room, quietly gulping my beer. I looked up and there He was – standing a full head taller than everyone else, coolly glancing around and ever-so-slightly lifting His chin as a greeting. Everyone else seemed to know Him.
I knew instantly that he was The One.
As usual, I drank more than my share. It gave me the courage to talk to The One. He was deep – I mean, the kind of deep that I didn’t know existed until I met Him. He spoke in ironic platitudes and invited meaning into the mundane. He made me think. Everyone else faded away while I talked to Him.
Somehow a bunch of us ended up swimming in the college lake. Waist-deep in sludge, He and I splashed under the stars and kissed like movie stars. He fabricated constellations in the sky like “Honeybee Cluster” that I can still find 40 years later.
We all ended up in the communal showers at a frat house, wearing our lake-slimed clothes. He and I kissed under the streaming water like no one else was there. The night was absolutely magical.
The following week, The One took me for a ride on His motorcycle. He showed up at my first-floor window, tall and beautiful and strong. I marveled at His biker shades. He said, “Ya gotta play the part.” Purposefully timing the ride to coincide with sunset, we shared its colors silently as the motorcycle roared.
The One was a perfect gentleman; He was equal levels kind and distant. He taught me to play darts, standing behind me and directing my stance, holding my hand as I threw. He made me laugh. He introduced me to new music. He was so tall, I stood on the base of the flagpole to kiss Him goodnight.
Then I heard that He’d walked another girl home from a party, decades before I realized that male-female friendships actually existed. With my heart smashed into pieces, I whined at The One, expecting an apology that rightfully never came.
Time went by, me still shattered … until the night I followed Him back to His dorm after a party. In my drunken stupor, I banged on His door; I knew He was inside. He didn’t answer. I banged harder and wailed in agony and other doors opened but not His and I crumpled onto the floor, bashing my head into His door – THUD THUD THUD – until finally, He opened the door.
He was surprisingly calm. “What do you want?”
“I want you!” I cried, too drunk to have any dignity at all.
He stared at me on the floor: wild 80’s hair askew, black waterfalls of mascara streaming down my face, wide bleary eyes pleading.
Unfazed, He spoke: “You can’t always get what you want, Kirsten.”
Then He closed the door.
Stunned into silence, having never heard this statement applied to me before, I stumbled away from the door, out of the dorm, and down to the lake – our lake – where I sprawled in the mud and sobbed uncontrollably until the sun threatened to rise.
I never recovered. I slept in His shirt every night for years. He stayed cordial, but the rides into the sunset disappeared into my dreams. Eventually, when we saw each other at parties, we were able to hold casual conversations. Every time we spoke, even briefly, I thought we were melding souls.
He stayed deep; I stayed lost.
Just before my wedding, I found The One online and struck up a conversation, just to be sure.
He was engaged, too. So I guess we were both sure.
Since I was mostly a drunk and I dropped out of sports, memories of my extracurriculars stand out as spectacular. For example, I had to DJ one semester on the campus radio.
With my love of music, one might imagine that this was a perfect job for me – and in a way, it was. I stole more albums from the radio station than I can count: alternative rock, indie pop, new wave. I discovered some really cool music on WRMU; my Flash In The Pan album is still a favorite.
But my radio shift started before dawn on Sunday mornings – and I had to play classical music. No rock, no pop, no new wave. No choice.
“People like classical music,” said my professor.
I did not.
Did I mention this started before dawn? On Sundays?
I was the only person at the station – revving it up for the morning, playing the required genre, and broadcasting live until the next person appeared four hours later.
To this day, I feel awful for the people of Alliance, Ohio who actually tried to enjoy classical music during my shift.
Trying not to scratch the needle across the record as I switched albums, I would say, “That was Joe-han Seb’-ass-tee-ahn Batch,” literally having no clue, “with Toe-cat-a and Few-gooey in D minor.”
I’d flick the second turntable on. “And now for some Chop-pin,” I’d say, quickly starting up the next song, hoping I’d said something right.
“Chop-pin” was my favorite composer; I almost stayed awake for his music. But it was 10 years before I knew how to pronounce his name.
Other than Chopin, I chose my selections based on which songs were the longest, so I could sleep between album changes. Sometimes this worked well; other times I woke to the “shh-click, shh-click” of the finished album revolving quietly.
I can’t imagine why I never pursued a career in radio.
My favorite time as radio “staff” was on Election Night, 1984. Watching the election results trickle in via the AP Wire, tallying up results to all the races, and listening to live on-air reports … this was the most exciting non-drinking night I’d ever had. I felt like I was a part of history, even though I mostly just tore papers off the Wire and ran across the room waving them at my colleagues.
I also joined the campus newspaper staff, which I loved – but my favorite story was a lie.
On April Fool’s Day, we ran a paper made entirely of fabrications. Not one published word was true.
For my April Fool’s joke, I decided to write a horror story on the untimely closing of “The Hood,” the students’ favorite bar. I worked hard fabricating the article, which included sad “quotes” from the owner and bartenders.
On April 1, my story was on the front page.
The Hood closure story nearly started a rebellion. Listening to the murmurs of dread and concern, wails of defiance and – finally – sighs of relief when it was revealed that the entire paper was a hoax … now that was fun.
After college, I did manage to land a dream job as a reporter, which I adored, with a local newspaper called The Gazette. Unfortunately, I’d only had the job for a matter of months when I got drunk and didn’t make it to work on time the next day. I slept through a bank robbery, likely the biggest story of the decade, and I was fired when I finally showed up for work.
That was the end of my journalism career. Whew.
When Kay, my sorority “Big Sis,” transferred to a different college, I got a new Big Sis in my sorority.
Kathy was cool. She was beautiful and wicked smart, and laid back in a way that said: Nothing to see here; move along. But we all knew there was plenty to see. Kathy was funny and clever and just plain sharp. And Kathy became my new Big Sis.
As a kind of initiation, we all sat on her dorm room floor and did shots. I think it was peppermint schnapps.
Or at least, I did shots. The way I remember it, I was supposed to do one shot a minute for an entire hour. So … 60 shots in 60 minutes.
Looking back, though, I think this level of drinking would have killed me. So maybe it was half an hour. Or maybe it was one shot every five minutes. I’m fairly certain no one was expected to die that night. The word “hazing” isn’t a Mount Union term.
I remember taking a shot and laughing – lots of people laughing. I remember taking another shot. Then another. I remember the next one seemed too soon. I drank it anyway.
Kathy was timing them: “Drink!” she’d say, handing me another shot. I’d drink. A millisecond would go by and she’d say, “Drink!” again, as if time had passed.
Kathy was drinking, too, but was she taking shots with me? Was anyone else drinking all these shots? There were a lot of people there; who was drinking shots? Was it only me? I was getting double vision – nothing unusual – but still drinking, drinking, drinking.
“Drink!”
Again?!? Really?!?
I drank every single shot that was handed to me, for whatever time was specified. I drank shot after shot after shot after shot. I was proud of my tolerance – but this occasion stands out: I was supremely glad when Kathy said, “Last one!”
I lived.
Another day, I learned to “shoot” a beer – something that made me very, very proud. I’d cut a hole near the bottom of the can, put that hole to my lips, and crack the top – which made the beer pour very quickly down my throat.
Once I learned to do that, I could finally stop tasting the beer – its rank, putrid, yeasty flavor. I hated the taste so this was perfect for me.
Also I could drink from the giant funnel at frat parties. The funnel would be on the second floor – yes, literally – and the tube hung over the railing down to the first floor. Someone upstairs would pour a full beer into the funnel so someone below could chug it.
I am still amazed that – at least during my tenure – no funnel-holders fell over the railing.
My pride in mastering the funnel trick was blown to smithereens when, in my senior year, I was so drunk, I couldn’t remember how to do the funnel trick. I started to choke and spewed beer on the people who were standing too close. Everyone hooted with laughter. This was the reason for the funnel after all – to watch the failures.
But I’d never failed before; I was humiliated and never did it again.
I was sober for years before I heard the term “alcohol poisoning.” I saw a boy walking past my house … then – bam! – he was face down on the sidewalk. He was rushed to the hospital and had his stomach pumped. That’s how I learned about the dangers of drinking.
I sure didn’t know it was dangerous when I was doing it. It never even crossed my mind.
Thanks to my rotten attitude during summers, my parents insisted that I get a job, so Arby’s hired me as their “salad girl.”
Astute readers will note that this job did not appear in the lengthy list from my previous “jobs” blog post. That’s because I did not want to be a salad girl at Arby’s.
I wanted to work at Kennywood, the local amusement park, my dream job since childhood. I had applied to Kennywood … but hadn’t heard back from them.
“Call them,” my dad suggested.
“I’m not going to CALL Kennywood!” I said, terrified.
My dad asked, “What’s the worst thing that could happen?”
“They could say no!” I said. I imagined them listing my flaws, demeaning me during their rejection.
“Then work at Arby’s,” said my dad.
I considered this. I wanted to work at Kennywood more than anything, and I really hated the idea of being a salad girl, but the phone was like a two-ton brick.
Mustering every non-drunken ounce of courage I had, I called Kennywood.
“Hi, I applied for a job and I haven’t heard anything back and …”
“What’s your name?” the faceless Kennywood staffer asked. I spelled out my name.
“Someone will call you back,” she said, and hung up.
I waited. By the phone. Pacing. Within an hour, someone called me back.
“We have you down as working in refreshments,” she said. “When can you start?”
I nearly exploded with relief, joy, excitement: “I can start anytime!” I said. Arby’s had to find another salad girl.
For two summers I worked – sober – all the time. I sold french fries one year, pizza and candy the next. I loved being part of the Kennywood machine. (I still complained; it was work after all.)
Walking into the park before it opened was so cool; I belonged there. I could hear my own footsteps as I passed through the silent park before thousands of guests descended. I watched the riderless rides revolve during test runs. I stood stealthily behind closed steel windows, knowing that customers waited on the other side.
Then, as the crowds hit, I worked hard. Thrilled with the mental break from my issues, I gave Kennywood everything I had. Notably, I felt worthwhile – like I made a difference in the world.
I met Ken – not named after the park, but I loved the irony. A beautiful boy who ran the ride outside my french fry window, Ken was a dream boyfriend: gorgeous, sweet, smart and funny. And unlike the guys at college, Ken treated me like a human – well, he treated me like a queen.
Planning lunch breaks with Ken made my stomach squirm with excitement. And outside work, we actually dated. While we occasionally drank, what I remember best was laughter. We laughed a lot together. Ken got me like no one else did. He didn’t mind that I was myself around him; he liked me anyway. I felt invigorated: good, safe, happy, free.
I felt like me.
On special occasions Kennywood held “grove parties” for its employees, where we’d dance after dark right there under the roller coasters, surrounded by co-workers, having the time of our lives. Those nights were unforgettable, a major bonus from a place I’d loved all my life.
But my addiction pummeled through during my second Kennywood summer – my first clue that my eating habits would also be a problem: I ate more candy than I sold.
I left Ken; I needed more.
By the third summer, I could no longer feel Kennywood’s allure.
And I was still searching for “more” a decade later.
The Naborhood Inn was the bar at Mount Union. “The Hood,” as it was known by students, was the major college hangout. I remember it as a dark, dark place where absolutely everything happened.
The Hood was about the size of a three-car garage made entirely of cinder block. I don’t remember windows, but I imagine there were glass-block holes in the wall and neon Budweiser lights hanging nearby. There was a cigarette machine against one wall and a jukebox against another, with six small tables for Hood Burger consumption.
My friends and I would hike the half-mile to the bar and wander past the sign with removable plastic letters in the front announcing “HAPPY HR 3-5” or “50 CENT SHOTS TUES.” On our way out, sometimes we’d take removable plastic letters with us. This had to infuriate them, but we expected them to expect this thievery. Building our names with plastic Hood letters became the ultimate dorm decoration.
Going up the three cement steps into the bar was easy; going down and out was always dicey.
Inside The Hood was pitch black. When students swarmed the place, it was so crowded that I couldn’t move or see over the shoulders around me. And if the place was empty, I still couldn’t see with the dim lighting and the thickness of cigarette smoke. When the door opened, a blast of cold air would smack everyone inside, so every head turned but no one smiled.
The Hood was my favorite place in the world.
In the center of the room was a dark-wood bar with a smattering of torn, spinning black barstools around it. Behind the bar were the real treasures: bartenders Jeff and Karen, and owner Sam.
Jeff was kind and quiet, always happy to see students, a mustache covering his minimalistic smile. Karen was the exact opposite. Petite with hair that matched her coal black surroundings, Karen was like a stray cat that had wandered inside: only there because she had to be, and no kindness toward college kids. But she was there every day, so we feigned happiness if we got our drink without her hissing at us.
Sam was the stalwart. Monstrous in size with a buzz cut he probably got in the Army years before, Sam was a terrifying teddy bear. When the students descended, Sam stood with his arms crossed in a corner scowling like a New York club bouncer. He didn’t talk much but when he did, it emitted as a growl: a low, beefy warning that startled even the drunkest football player and kept us from snatching the glowing beer signs from the walls.
One night I walked over to Sam and kissed him. It may have been on a dare, or I may have just drunkenly decided I loved him. Sam and I kissed forever, right there in his corner. It’s possible that he was the best kisser in the world, so I just didn’t stop. It wasn’t until after Sam died that I learned he had a wife and kids. I like to believe that they weren’t in his life the night we kissed. It’s been 40+ years after all.
Of course, the kiss changed nothing. The Hood continued to be both a respite and a wild party for my college socializing. It’s the place I remember the best, and the place that now, I’d be most scared to visit.
In my mind, in spite of what it actually is, The Hood will forever be the greatest bar in the world.
Somewhere during college, my life started spiraling into something unrecognizable. And it got much, much worse before it got better.
But I’m not writing my story because it needs to be read. I’m writing it because it needs to be written.
I need to shine a bright light on why I did what I did, so that I can understand better. Telling the story is like talking about a nightmare; it’s not quite so scary once it’s shared.
Promiscuity often goes hand-in-hand with alcoholism. But I believe there’s a stronger reason than just “alcoholics get drunk and do stupid stuff.” For me, both alcoholism and promiscuity stem from one deep-seated belief: I needed something outside of myself to validate me.
Alcoholism also often goes hand-in-hand with trauma, particularly childhood sexual abuse. I went to a lot of therapy and every single therapist asked me: “Do you think you were you abused as a child?”
I wanted to get better; I was willing to do anything to figure out the underlying causes behind my behavior. So I really thought about this, imagining every possible scenario. I thought back to my childhood, considered every friend, relative and friend of the family. I even considered strangers.
I really, really delved deep, trying to remember my dark, underlying trauma.
But there was nothing to recall. I was never abused as a child. I’m not blocking it out; it simply didn’t happen.
There was a time when I actually wanted to say I was abused, because it would have been easy to use abuse as an excuse. I hated my own behavior; for so long I wished that something caused the problem that was “me.”
But the problem was the way I felt about myself; I didn’t feel worthy of respect or care. I hated myself so much, I never looked inward to soothe my pain. I didn’t believe I had any good inside of myself. The middle school bullies taught me that my deep-down “goodness” was actually “weakness.” So I crushed that.
Instead I reached out – and reached out – and reached out – and begged and pleaded and cried, please love me! … even though the person who most needed to love me was me.
So instead of love, I got sex. I fixed it in my brain, so that sex seemed a fine replacement for the love I craved. No one was offering actual love to someone so needy and desperate, so I believed that what I got was somehow worthwhile.
I started to believe it was my choice, which gave me a (delusional) feeling of control.
And in spite of not being abused, I blamed my picture-perfect parents and the cruel girls in middle school for my self-loathing. I blamed them – well, I blamed everyone – for what was wrong inside of me.
I’m certain that I am not alone in this insanity; it’s commonplace in addiction. I blamed them because I wasn’t mature enough to blame – and therefore take responsibility for – myself.
Blame is just another way of reaching outward instead of inward. Everything I did was a way of searching outside myself to fill the void where self-love should have been. And the more I reached, the less love and validation I found.
It took me many, many years before I realized that the only way out … was in.
It didn’t take me long to realize that “going home” with a guy – even if our eyes locked across a crowded room – didn’t necessarily mean I was going to marry that person. I may have started college with severe naivety, but I learned very quickly that what I was doing with guys wasn’t doing anything for me.
Unfortunately, I had no idea what else to do. It seemed like all of my friends were drinking to oblivion and going home with guys, too. So I just kept doing it.
After many, many frat parties, and many, many drunken trysts with college boys who were basically strangers, a boy named Mike called my dorm … and asked me out.
That phone call was exhilarating. Somebody actually liked me! As an added bonus Mike was the best looking guy in my class – a soccer player from New York. With his exotic back story, I’d always admired him from afar.
When I told my friends he’d asked me out, we all squealed with delight. What would I wear? Where would we go? I spent three days giggling about the possibilities until finally, it was time to go on my first college date.
Mike showed up to walk me to the bar, where we’d decided to go for drinks. Let’s face it – there wasn’t much else to do in that tiny town. We talked shyly all the way there, then drank some beers and loosened up a bit. Mike was a perfect gentleman, holding the door for me, buying my beers, leaning in close as we tried to talk above the din. We had an absolutely fine time.
Heading back to my dorm, we were laughing like old friends. It was chilly, so Mike wrapped his jacket around my shoulders. I felt like I was in a Hallmark movie; I could practically hear the soundtrack playing.
He walked me to my room and I invited him inside; I wanted him to see my posters and record collection.
As soon as we stepped inside, Mike started kissing me. Okay, I thought. The best looking boy on campus is kissing me! I decided music could wait.
We kissed for a minute and then, abruptly, Mike pushed me back, grabbed the top of my head with one hand, and shoved my face toward his crotch.
Suddenly this didn’t feel romantic. In fact, it bordered on abusive.
I ducked away from his hand and broke free. The magical night we’d had vanished; the spell was irrevocably broken.
“What are you doing?” I whimpered.
“Come on,” he said.
“What do you mean? Why are you doing this?” My voice cracked.
Mike looked perplexed. He didn’t seem to have an answer. Finally he stammered, “What about all those other guys?”
Other guys?
My stomach clenched and tears stung my eyes. From Hallmark to hell, in the blink of an eye. I may have been drunk, and I may have been naive, but I wasn’t stupid.
“Go home,” I said. I turned my back on him and sat down on the bed. A part of me hoped he would stay, sit down and reassure me that this was all a mistake. But Mike – who was still standing stupidly by the door – just walked out without a word. There was no apology. In fact, we never spoke again.
I lost something that night – some part of me that had been tucked away and hopeful. It crumbled inside me, swirled like dust, then disappeared forever.
I always loved sled riding – but only on the way down. Pulling my sled back up the hill was far too much like work, and it was agonizing on the big hills around the places where I lived.
After dinner one night in college, the girls decided we should all go sled riding. This sounded like a marvelous idea. We all snuck trays out of the cafeteria – hard plastic rectangles that slid across the table nicely – to use as sleds. Under our thick coats in the middle of winter, this wasn’t too hard.
We raced back to the dorm, waving around our personal “sleds” and digging out our gloves and hats. We were going sled riding! There was snow as far as the eye could see, and all we needed to do was sit down and slide!
In Ohio.
None of us considered this. We were in one of the flattest terrains this side of the Mississippi. There were no hills. Anywhere.
We trudged through the snow all over campus, looking for a hill, laughing all the way. No one was willing to give up and, eventually, we found a 20-foot dip in the terrain to use for our purposes.
One by one, we sat down on our trays … and sunk into the snow. We pushed ourselves with our feet. We pushed ourselves with our hands. Friends pushed other friends. We fell off of our trays into the snow, laughing hysterically, sliding nowhere.
We were college students, though, so we figured out what we needed to do: carve out our path! We took our trays and ran them down the “hill” until there was a path wide enough for a tray or two to descend. And then we took turns “sliding” on the path – literally the most pitiful sledding experience in the history of the world.
To this day, it is one of my fondest college memories.
