The moment I decided I needed to get the heck out of sorority life came as I watched a gaggle of my pretty sisters in tied-up white T-shirts wrestle in a kiddie pool filled with off-brand lube while 20 boys in patterned button-ups stood in a circle around them drinking crappy beers, passing around a plastic bottle of vodka, and laughing.
It wasn’t so much the wrestling (as doing that in a sticky substance-filled pool is pretty fun), or the drinking (I, too, like to partake!), as it was the distinct impression that these boys thought they’d just pulled one over on us. Likely because they had.
Being part of a real-life Old School knockoff didn't just compel me to leave the sisterhood, it convinced me I needed to transfer somewhere that didn't even have Greek life. I didn’t feel smug or self-righteous; I was just baffled why no one else seemed to find anything off-putting about hungry frat boys commissioning a bunch of women to wrestle for them. The girls had been flattered, honored even, that the cool guys had asked our sorority to participate in their grimy basement grapple, and not another house.