Dave and Kevin’s parties were the place to be. Everyone knew this. During my freshman year, we’d hear that one word: “Daveandkevins” – and we’d be on our way.
To this day, I have no idea how their parties were better than everyone else’s parties, because they were held in their room on campus, not in a house and not in a bar. The small space alone should have made a mess out of every attempted soirée. It should have been a disaster every single time.
But if that was true … you didn’t know Dave and Kevin. Their parties were somehow sized perfectly – people coming and going but always a tight-knit happy crowd inside. In spite of the single-gender male dorm, party-goers were mostly female.
Dave and Kevin’s parties were the only parties I attended that didn’t require me to prep beforehand with a couple of beers. They always provided enough alcohol for everyone, but that’s not the reason I had fun. The reason Dave and Kevin’s parties were fun, quite honestly, was because of Kevin.
Kevin told stories. He waved his arms around in grand gestures and rolled his eyes dramatically as he talked. His stories started small and ended huge. And every, single story was fall-on-the-floor, laugh-out-loud, can’t-stop-crying hysterical. It was like watching stand-up without the fee.
Dave played the straight man to Kevin’s funny. They’d been roommates for a couple of years and they made a great team. Dave was super nice, too. But I remember those parties as if Kevin stood under a spotlight, waving his arms with a circle of people around him laughing, Dave standing slightly askance, rolling his eyes one step behind.
Way later in college, when I was a sorority girl and needed a date to the sorority formal, I invited Kevin. Any party would be better with Kevin; any event would be bearable with Kevin nearby, telling his stories and making us all laugh. And Kevin did exactly that.
We all drank like swine, of course, since a sorority formal is known for its drinking … or at least, that’s what I believed. I think it’s supposed to be a dance. But after dancing, we all went back to our rooms and drank more, crashing in our fancy hotel rooms until checkout the next morning.
I remember drunkenly hanging on Kevin in our room and trying to kiss him. Kevin swatted me away like an annoying insect that had crawled onto his arm.
This was a reaction I’d never gotten before. “Just nooooo!” he said.
Kevin had every stereotypical nuance that became popularized decades later by Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, so maybe he was gay. Until Ellen, ten years later, I was as ignorant as the rest of the American public. In the 20th century, people were extremely hesitant to announce their homosexuality.
I’d had absolutely no clue that Kevin was gay until that moment. And even then, he never admitted it. Maybe he was planning to be a priest.
I wish Kevin had felt safer then to be himself, all of himself, and been free in college the way – I hope and imagine – he was able to be free a decade later. And I wish I’d been less oblivious to the signs and more intelligent about life when I was younger.
Mostly, I just wish Kevin knew how much I adored him from the very first time he opened his dorm room door. And I hope he went on to be adored for decades longer, wherever he may have gone.
I played tennis and softball in high school, partially a requirement by my parents to “do something.” I was expected to do something in college as well, and I considered playing softball. But all the scary powder puff football girls played softball, so I only played tennis in college.
Even this was a mistake. Drunks should not play sports.
When I started playing, I felt pretty good about it. I made the college tennis team! I would go to practice, stretch and run sprints. Tennis is not really a “team” sport, and I didn’t become friends with the other tennis players, but I felt like I was part of something anyway.
We went to matches on a bus and I sat alone, laughing at the comments made around me but not really knowing how to participate in the conversation. Everyone seemed older than me. I wasn’t a fan of the uniforms (skirts – yuk) and I wasn’t wild about “conditioning,” but I enjoyed playing, when we actually played.
My freshman year was all about getting used to playing at a higher level than in high school. We had a lot of good players and my game hadn’t changed that much since high school, so I don’t remember playing a single match. I probably did – but I was accustomed to sitting on a bench anyway.
When tennis season ended, I was thrilled. That meant I could drink with wild abandon again.
By sophomore year, I was drinking substantially more – and tennis practices were held on Saturday mornings. My Friday night partying interfered greatly with my ability to perform on the courts. And sprints after drinking two dozen beers? That was a non-starter.
I definitely survived one practice. I may have survived two. Then I quit the team, and quit playing tennis for the rest of my college career, and well into adulthood. By the time I started playing again, I was past 40.
Looking back on my youth, I never felt like I was part of the team. I didn’t get to know my teammates. I didn’t talk to them. I didn’t have any fun. It wasn’t until I was in my forties, and laughing at the net with my mom and her friends, that I discovered there was joy in socializing during sports.
Now I have actual fun – with tennis (although I rarely play) and with pickleball (which is way easier to play – and to socialize). And softball – which was useless to me in high school – is an absolute blast now that I speak to the humans on my team and don’t just stand in the outfield watching butterflies.
Well, sometimes I am still distracted by the butterflies.
I have some softball friends who talk about their weekend games, where they crack a beer after every home run. To me, that makes no sense. It’s like drinking at Disney World. Why? It’s a waste of alcohol. More importantly, it’s a waste of Disney World.
But in college, I was glad to do away with softball, and tennis, and swimming (which I previously loved) and anything else that required movement.
To be honest, I’m not a fan of movement now – until I get up and get going. Then I love it. Sober, I can do anything I want.
I never imagined myself in a sorority. Believing that sororities were just cliques with Greek letters, I assumed that I would be excluded. I have never been accepted well by cliques.
After arriving at Mount Union, this anti-sorority attitude lasted maybe two months. Then suddenly I was surrounded by girls rushing sororities, girls asking me to join their sororities, and girls asking which sorority I was going to join. Sorority rush – whether or not I wanted to be involved – became everything on campus.
According to CollegeData.com, 50% of students participate in Greek life at Mount Union. My guess in 1983 would have been 98%. I could count on one hand the number of people I knew who weren’t involved with Greek life, other than freshmen who were waiting for their chance to get in.
Having rarely been accepted by women – any women – in the past, I didn’t expect to be accepted by women in a sorority either. Everyone assured me that it was tons of fun, and not to worry. I imagined I’d be rejected by all four of Mount Union’s sororities because who would want someone as anti-social as me?
My ideas started to shift when girls started saying things like “you’d be a great …” and “you’d really fit in with …” as if they wanted me to join their group. I started thinking I might not be completely on the outs.
But the real clincher was Preference Night.
Preference Night was when students officially chose the sorority or fraternity they “preferred.” And if lucky enough to be chosen by my preferred sorority, I would go to a big party at the sorority house. Lots of celebratory drinking was involved – and that was awesome.
Better still, the guys from all the fraternities would make the rounds from one sorority house to another, “welcoming” the girls with big, sloppy, drunken kisses. The four fraternities would wander into each of the four sorority houses, and everyone would kiss everyone else. This debauchery lasted all evening. (Obviously this was pre-pandemic; I can’t imagine what they did in 2021.)
The description of Preference Night sounded too good to be true. I could not miss that party! Plus … see above. Other than my ex-friend Connie, people seemed to want me in their group. Sorority rush became everything.
My greatest fear during Rush was that I wouldn’t get into the one sorority I truly loved: Alpha Chi Omega. I loved the girls who were already members, and the ones I didn’t know yet seemed incredibly fun. Many of my favorite upperclassmen were in that sorority, and all the freshmen I adored were pledging Alpha Chi, too.
Each sorority had its own personality. And after “rushing” and getting to know the various sororities, Alpha Chi seemed to be the best fit for me. In addition to the truly delightful personalities of the individuals, the group as a whole drank a sufficient amount of alcohol. And I wanted to be part of that.
The entire rush process made me feel less like a loner and more like … well, a sister.
Fortunately, Alpha Chi wanted me to be part of their group, and I was thrilled to get the invitation. I became a proud member of Alpha Chi Omega, standing in a circle full of girls singing by candlelight, being welcomed into the fold.
I remember the love, the feeling of belonging, the camaraderie between women. I remember feeling like I belonged somewhere – and that I had chosen the greatest group of girls in the world.
Oh yeah, and Preference Night was incredibly fun, too.
During second semester of my freshman year, my core group of friends started to disintegrate. It was sort of a natural selection thing – we all found things in common with other people, and got closer to those people who were more like us.
Debbie was my best friend, hands down. We spent many nights in the lobby laughing our full heads off about absolutely nothing. Tears would stream down my face; my stomach ached; my face hurt from all the smiling. It happened so many times, my face and stomach muscles actually started to adjust. I loved Debbie to my core, and we had the same college major (Communications), so she and I spent a lot of time together away from the other girls.
Debbie and I decided that someday we’d get married and have children, but we’d live next door to one another so our kids could play together. We planned to have breakfast together every day so we would never lose touch. (We stayed in touch for the rest of our lives, and my son did meet her son, but Debbie died in 2017.)
At college, I ditched Debbie regularly in favor of bars and parties. After finding Amy – and her friend Chris – and her friend Holly – I had plenty of drinking buddies. For awhile, Chris and Amy and I drank together every night.
And Holly – who lived (gasp!) on another floor entirely – invited me to her room regularly to drink something called sloe gin. This stuff was so delicious, it was like drinking cherry candy. I’m not sure how much sloe gin I consumed, but after a few weeks I realized that I got stomach pains every time I drank it. Looking back, and after all I went through with my autoimmune disorder, I now suspect that my liver was screaming at me to stop – please STOP. So I didn’t drink sloe gin again, ever.
I also met Donna, who was petite and bright and understood things I didn’t – like why it was warmer on the other side of the street when the buildings blocked the wind. She may not have been a rocket scientist, but I was impressed. She could drink with me daily and still get her work done. Donna and I got so close by the end of freshman year, we decided to room together.
Donna didn’t realize what a mistake she was making. How could she have known?
How could anyone have known? It’s impossible to distinguish a young drinker from a young alcoholic. The future was so incredibly bright for everyone – and we were all too young to know where we’d really be in four years.
It was impossible to know, for example, that Debbie would never drink – and yet she’d die so young. It was impossible to know that Chris would have a life-altering car accident after freshman year that terrified me into muteness. It was impossible to know that Donna would graduate six months early and I wouldn’t remember her leaving until she reminded me at an alumni reunion. It was impossible to know that I’d never see Amy again after college. It was impossible to know that Holly would someday be my first connection on Facebook to all of my old college friends.
And it was impossible for anyone to know in college that I was one of the 10% of drinkers who had the gene for alcoholism, who wouldn’t quit until there were no other options. Even I didn’t know.
My relationship with God took a long hiatus between the ages of 18 and 28.
I started out in church, like so many people do, which I did not enjoy. My parents were both raised by very religious parents – my non-alcoholic grandfather was a minister – so I ended up in church by default. I think most kids are raised in whatever culture their parents provide. I spent a lot of time coloring while stuck in a pew, and if Sunday School was available, I was there. “God” was just a given.
No one asked me what I believed; I memorized the Ten Commandments in Sunday School and the order of the Bible books. I learned how to sing about letting my little light shine, and the music is what I liked best.
I believed everything I was told. I admired David and his bravery, taking out the Jolly Green Giant. I had a little crush on Samson with his long hair. I was awestruck by Noah saving all those animals from sure disaster: a 40-day flood that covered the earth. I neglected to wonder what happened to all the people during the flood, even though that’s probably the moral of the story.
But at some point, I started to question the existence of God. I asked my youth minister about it, who tried to explain the concept of faith. But it sounded like hooey. How could you know something you don’t actually know?
Religion was never my cup of tea, but I’d always said my nightly prayers. I was still saying them – quietly, so as not to let my roommate know – when I was a freshman in college. My prayers were fairly basic; I think they even rhymed. I’m not sure to whom I was speaking, but if there was a God, I figured I could benefit from some of His attention.
Then I started drinking so much that sometimes I would pass out without saying any prayers at night. And when I woke up I’d think, Wait, did I say my prayers? And then I’d feel guilty if I couldn’t remember saying them.
Then I took a class simply called “The Bible” in college. For homework once, we read two stories from different books of the Bible. Each told the same story from a different perspective – and they were totally different! Maybe this assignment was meant to show how people’s perceptions differ – but it taught me that I couldn’t believe what I’d been taught my whole life. Someone, somewhere was lying.
My prayers really shortened themselves after that.
I didn’t know then that I could believe in God without believing in the Bible. I’d thought they were the same.
So one evening, when I was getting ready to go out drinking, I wrote a little note to God. I was big on writing poems when I drank, all of them dreadful, but I wrote this poem sober.
It said:
Dear God,
I think I might
Go out tonight
Take care of me
When I can’t see
And that was it. I wrote it carefully and sincerely in the fall of 1982.
Then I tucked it away and didn’t think about God again until 1987.
During fall of my freshman year, I met Jon, a junior with coal black eyes, long dark hair and red-tinted glasses. Jon was rail-thin and drawled his words, possibly because he was always high.
While college “dates” were rare, Jon was technically my first relationship in college. He obviously liked me and I obviously liked him. I am sure we met at a bar or a party but I don’t remember which.
Jon and I hung out regularly in his incense-enhanced room, talking about music and making out. I thought Jon was incredibly cool and my life’s goal was to be cool, so I did my best to fall in love.
Mostly I just thought he looked really good. That was enough for me until I realized that Jon was … well, rather dull. He was drop-dead gorgeous but it became obvious that we were not destined to have a lasting relationship.
Unfortunately, I had to delay my break-up decision after Connie stepped in. Connie started sitting next to me in math class, where we talked about everything except math. She asked me questions about what I did at parties, who I befriended, where I hung out. She especially asked me all about Jon, and I told her everything. Connie was a junior and she and Jon were friends.
Connie was the first person I’d ever met who treated me nicely, got close to me, and then shredded me behind my back. Sure, I’d been betrayed before. But until Connie, I had no idea people could be so cruel; I believed in our friendship. She was a junior, which made her practically an adult. As a freshman in college, I believed that adulthood and sainthood were the same thing.
I continued to tell Connie all the details of my time with Jon, every day in math class, until sorority rush loomed. Connie was in a sorority I liked, and – along with one other sorority – I was considering pledging. But a friend came to me one night and said, “I didn’t want to tell you this, but I think you should know.” She inhaled deeply. “Connie blackballed you.”
Blackballed me? What the heck did that even mean?
It turns out that sorority members can refuse to allow specific people into the sorority – like a cult but backwards. And Connie had specifically named me as someone who could never, ever be her sorority sister. I would never be allowed to be part of the Delta Delta Delta sorority.
To compensate for this, and to make myself feel “better,” I used this opportunity to get as drunk as was humanly possible … on a weeknight. That’s how I discovered that I could drink whether I had class the next day, or not.
I don’t remember if Jon and I spent time together after Connie made her true self known. He told me he wanted nothing to do with her and then I saw them together regularly afterward. Maybe she finally admitted that she liked him, and maybe he decided any female would do.
I remember thinking: gee, I can’t trust anyone. This was a new concept for me.
From Connie and Jon, I learned that people are slimy and horrible and mean. I learned that someone can hate me just because someone else likes me. Having been so rarely liked by guys previously – probably because I was sober and awkward – this situation never arose in high school.
Of course, Connie was just the beginning. I learned much harder, more painful reasons not to trust later.
I didn’t know yet, my freshman year, that real love is actually about friendship. So when I befriended a redheaded freshman who happened to be male, it never occurred to me that the feelings I had about the redhead were the exact feelings upon which relationships are built.
I remember being on a hayride with the redhead (RH), laughing the entire time. Yes, we’d been drinking – but this was something different. This was the kind of fun I’d only had with females up to this point. He and I were actually bonding, sharing back-and-forth snippets, holding hands and throwing hay and drinking hot cocoa like we’d known each other forever.
I didn’t know it then, but I probably loved that guy.
We went out together, and we went out as part of a group, and we always had fun and we occasionally kissed and it was romantic and exciting and invigorating. I’d been in college a whopping two months.
But the closer we got, the more I got scared. For all of my desperation and neediness, I wasn’t ready to settle down. And I didn’t want to hurt the guy who was fast becoming my closest friend.
So I meticulously wrote a note to RH – in ink, backwards, so that he would have to hold it up to a mirror in order to read it. Then just as he was leaving one night, I handed it to him and hoped he would understand.
I’d written the lyrics to the Hall & Oates song, Wait For Me, all backwards and neatly fitting on one page, in the hopes that RH would wait until I got my act together before we got too involved.
Wait for me please wait for me – All right I guess that’s more than I should ask but won’t you wait for me…?
There were no cell phones then. The next day, RH knocked on my door and said, “How long do you want me to wait?”
I said, “I don’t know.”
And he said, “I can’t do that.” He had more self-respect in one finger than I had in my whole body.
And just like that, RH and I were officially just friends. I got really, really, really drunk that night.
We remained friends. A couple of years later, we had some beautiful, romantic nights together, drinking whiskey in seclusion. I still hadn’t gotten my act together, though, so I said goodbye to him again, still somewhat hopeful that I would get my act together soon.
Just before I graduated from college, when I was so much of a mess no one wanted to claim me, and getting my act together was a distant dream that was unlikely ever to happen, I heard that RH was engaged to be married. I sobbed uncontrollably behind closed doors.
A few days after his announcement, I ran into RH at a party, sitting by the keg.
“How did you know she was the one?” someone asked him.
“With everyone else,” he said, meaning me among others, “there was always something in the way, something that just wasn’t quite right. With her, there’s nothing. Everything is just … right.”
I wanted to vomit on his shoes. I wanted to run screaming through the house. I wanted to tell him he was a FOOL for not waiting for me when he’d had the chance, that for sure I’d have been ready by now. (I wasn’t.) Instead I nodded as though I understood, and took another swig of beer.
He talked as though we’d never been a couple. Maybe we never were.
My freshman year of college saw two distinctly different personalities emerge.
First, I embraced the happy person I’d become – someone comfortable with her geek status and excited to be around other smart people. I was thrilled to be at college, living the dream, and I imagined a career in television, radio or newspapers. I found like-minded friends, most notably my friend, Debbie, who I’d met at a Communications scholarship interview. We’d stumbled upon each other months earlier and when we arrived on campus, we lived next door to one another in King Hall.
Debbie and I became fast, dear friends. We would stay up nights “studying” in the dorm lounge, where we would laugh so hard our stomachs would ache and our eyes would pour and attempting to stop laughing only made us laugh harder. Debbie was an innocent if ever there was one – a sweet midwestern soul who knew only that she wanted to work hard and do well in life. And I loved spending time with her.
On the other end of the spectrum, I sought like-minded people with whom to drink. Debbie didn’t have any interest in alcohol, and I wasn’t going to give up my supposed safety net for one friend, no matter how dear. Plus, unlike me, Debbie actually spent time on studying and coursework – so I needed something to do while she worked.
So I found Amy, who would go out with me any night of the week. We’d walk to the local liquor store and buy four quarts of beer, which was all we could carry. Then we’d go back to the dorm and drink two quarts each – however long that took – and when they were gone, we’d go to bed. At some point, we realized that five quarts of beer was just a tiny bit better than only four quarts, so we figured out a way to carry five.
Amy and I laughed, too, although not nearly as heartily or as often. Instead Amy and I were morose, and spent hours discussing the absurdity of societal norms. We detested authority and we both felt like we’d gotten a raw deal in life. We were rebels. We drank and listened to the Doors and got loud during quiet hours until the other girls either drank with us, or shunned us.
Looking back, it’s so easy to see what was happening. I could be “the real me” with Debbie – sweet, innocent, fun-loving Debbie, the one person at my college graduation with whom I cried real tears of regret because we’d be leaving all those nights of laughter behind. Sometimes I think Debbie was the first true friend I ever had.
But alcohol had its hooks in me even at 18. I thought drinking would make me popular and wild and exciting, even as it turned me into a social leper. I thought alcohol offered me freedom even as it chained my soul. So I chose parties with strangers over time with Debbie almost immediately.
Parties with strangers became parties with friends … which became parties with groups who may or may not be able to be trusted … which became parties off-campus because I couldn’t trust anyone.
A lot happened in those four years. I’m still not sure I did even one thing right, other than graduating. But what happened there got me to where I am today, so I have zero regrets.
I was not a blackout drinker for many years, so I actually remember my first frat party. I remember the long wooden bar, the kegs, the innumerable red cups – full and empty, beer sloshing onto the floor. I remember music so loud it was impossible to talk.
I remember being grateful for the din, because I never knew what to say anyway. I remember watching people push through the crowds, seemingly going somewhere, following people around with no discernible reason.
What I remember best from that first party, though, was Scott. Looking aimlessly around, trying to figure out what I was supposed to do, I noticed a guy across the room with the deepest, darkest brown eyes I’d ever seen. He was tall and gorgeous and – I swear – he kept looking at me. I glanced away every time I saw him looking, quickly staring at the floor so he didn’t know I wanted another glimpse at his eyes.
I don’t remember what he said after making his way across the room but, even drunk, I trembled. I didn’t know how to talk to boys, and this one was a senior.
“Do you wanna get outta here?” Scott said.
He likes me, I thought. I thought the invitation to leave meant that he wanted to talk somewhere quieter. My parents met in college, so I thought this was how relationships started. I had visions of marriage and little brown-eyed babies.
I thought that a good-looking guy noticing me meant hope for my future. I would have done cartwheels across the roof if this guy had asked me to do them.
We didn’t really talk at all.
Things were different in college, but I wasn’t different. I was still a girl who believed in love, romance and magic. I believed in fairy tales. I was ridiculously naive. If a guy paid me even the least little bit of attention, I fell in love.
I need to make this one fact very, very clear: I really was this stupid.
And when Scott ignored me later, I learned absolutely nothing. Instead, I determined that a gorgeous guy taking me to his room gave me some sort of prestige. I had to believe some good came from it.
I was screamingly, achingly, desperately lonely and all I wanted in the entire world was for someone to like me. I wanted someone to actually talk to me, get to know me, and decide that I was worthy. God knows that I did not know this about myself. I needed that validation, and I sought it through men.
But it was rare that anyone spent enough time with me to find out my desires and beliefs, or discover what kind of person I was. Only a handful of men got to know me and didn’t take advantage of my desperation.
The ones who didn’t push me are the men are I remember best. I remember their names, their smiles, their kindness. They’re the men I still adore today; they’re the angels in my story.
Scott was the first college guy who “liked” me enough to invite me to his room. He was not the last.
As time went on and I frequented more and more frat parties, and more and more guys invited me to their rooms, I didn’t feel so lonely … at first. A few years after this trend started, I realized I’d never been so lonely in my life.
But it took a long time and a lot of painful nights to get to that point.
Before college, I’d selected Powder Puff Football as one of my main interests on campus, along with tennis and softball – which is likely why I got a roommate who was built like a tiny brick. I was always athletic, but never a jock. I took one look at the Powder Puff Football team and ran for the hills.
On the day we both moved in, my first roommate Paula was reticent – and she remained that way all year. She never said a pleasant word to me. Since I was rarely pleasant first, we did not become friends.
In fact, we barely spoke. She would hang out with Mary (a Powder Puffer) who smoked like a chimney. Mary’s room was the only one in the hall that stunk like cigarettes – until Paula came back to our room, which made our room stink like cigarettes.
I detested the smell. I would cough loudly after she returned to the room, letting her know my feelings.
I don’t remember the two of us discussing our issues with one another. Communication was never my strong suit. We didn’t ask, “Is this bothering you?” Neither of us had any interest in cooperation, and I behaved like a spoiled brat. I believed everything I did was done the right way, and everything she did was done the wrong way.
My husband and sons will tell you that I haven’t changed all that much since college.
Other than drinking alcohol, my only true love was music. I was a fanatic for every genre, with the exceptions of jazz and country, and when I liked a new song – which I did often – I became obsessed with that song. As an addict, more was always better.
During my freshman year, I discovered that I could walk to the local store and buy any 45 I wanted. For the uninitiated, a “45” is a record – the precursor to CDs and Spotify. Unlike an “album” (a term still used today), a 45 only held two songs – and usually only one good song. When I was in college, a 45 cost about $.99.
So I would buy my favorite-at-the-moment 45 – for example, You Can Do Magic by America – and I would put it on my stereo, crank it up to top volume, and play it repeatedly for days, sometimes weeks, maybe months. I played it from the second I woke up in the morning until I showered – then I played it again after I showered until I went to class. And when classes were done for the day, I played it for the next seven hours straight. I played it over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over.
When I got a new 45, I changed the song, but I rarely changed my routine.
One day I came back to the room and Paula was playing ABC’s The Look of Love, a 45 I didn’t particularly like. She played it over and over and over for three days. By the end of the first day, I hated the song. And I hated Paula. And I think even Paula didn’t like that song anymore by the time she was done with that 45.
But we never said a single word to each other about it. Eventually I got to the stereo first again, and went right back to my despicable behavior. This made me happy and, as any good addict knows, my happiness is all that mattered.
