Somehow, even while doing such odd things as eating a potluck picnic while discussing Homer, whether or not Finnish is related to Japanese, Asterix and Obelix, and my cousin’s propensity to run out into traffic after frisbees, the strangest part of the day was watching wave upon wave of perspective sorority girls walk past us on their way to the next sorority house. I’d never witnessed a Rush day before. In fact, before today it had remained one of those hypothetical and borderline fictional parts of college life that makes its way into movies and TV shows but that had never yet intruded into my concept of reality. I couldn’t look away. It’s not every day fiction becomes manifest in the middle of a picnic.

Some of these prospective sorority sisters walked in large groups, competing for limited space in each sorority, but putting their differences aside long enough to cluster for comfort on the long walk between potential rejections. Others walked alone, seeming to mull their previous interviews over, point by point, to the rhythm of the passing blocks of pavement. Each one looked exactly like every magazine spread I’ve seen, perfectly straight hair falling just so, over-sized bags slung over their shoulders, flawless makeup. (Each one except one, that is. One was dressed in stylish jeans, an orange tank top, and flat sandals. She intrigued me.)

In the midst of these waves of girls, one set decided to cross the street in the middle of the block. First one girl darted out into the break in traffic, then two more, than five or six more, and soon the whole flock was trailing across the street. I could just imagine the mess of belts and oversized earrings, shoes and purses that would be on our hands when the guys driving (quite coincidentally, I’m sure) up and down the street and keeping his eyes on the girls rather than the lane in front of him, would miss the fact that some of the girls were actually in the road and would inadvertently send them flying toward the curb.