Prom dresses and awkward encounters at the O.B.B.

It’s difficult for me to explain how the Orange and Black Ball made me feel. I’ll admit that it verged on being lame at some points, and yet I found myself content as I walked home afterward. But I can’t quite put my finger on why. This makes sense, given that the whole night was a blur of camera-snap-happy pregames, waiting in endless lines to stuff my face with appetizers and sweating bullets as I flailed like a madman to the Super Mash Bros.’ dubstep remix of every song ever. Bear with me, then, as I piece together my night through the moments and quotes that most jumped out at me.

1) “I know I’ve got the Asian glow, but I promise I’m not drunk. Give me a logic problem, any logic problem. I can solve it. I promise you.”

2) “Why can’t we have one of these every Friday? So much better than Charter.”

3) There was a guy in a plaid button-down and paisley tie dancing with two girls. And I don’t mean your everyday grinding train that any run-of-the-mill sly devil can coordinate. Rather, this was some seriously sensual Dancing-With-the-Stars tango with dips and twirls: the whole nine yards. Not to mention, they both refused to stop kissing him. Where do people like him come from, and why am I not him!?

4) “These lights are too bright. For once I’m drunk enough to get down, but now I just feel naked. I can’t dance naked in public.”

5) A solid chunk of time elapsed between the opening band and the Super Mash Bros.’ performances. Much like musical chairs, such an awkward pause requires that you stay conversing with whomever you had been speaking before the pause began. Fortunately, I was with friends. I saw wanderers nearby who had innocently stopped to chat with an old friend. The music stopped, and they lost their “Imma go get down cuz this is my jam” excuse. Never have I ever seen so many people take sips of empty cups to kill speaking time. We’ll have to work on this next time.

6) “This thing’s got more hors d’oeuvres than all of last week’s douchey bank recruiting sessions combined. Princeton’s so great.”

7) Got stuck amidst a crowd of Koreans and I couldn’t find my way out. I didn’t hear a word of English for a solid four minutes.

8) Foolishly, I tried to reach a friend on the other side of the stage. Between us was the pulsating mass of sweating, rowdily shouting, raunchily gyrating sacks of hormones that are college students. Unless you want to dance your way through such slimy chaos, I suggest that you move outward from this nucleus of depravity into the increasingly innocent concentric circles that went from prom to grade-school ice-cream social occupying the outermost rings of the gymnasium.

9) And my personal favorite, straight from the mouth of that guy handing out playing cards at the entrance of the locker room so that you couldn’t sneak friends in: “I fucking hate these kids.”

In retrospect, I realize that the beauty of the ball was its sobriety. Don’t worry; I’m not naive enough to believe that the vast majority of attendants would have even come close to passing a breathalyzer test. In fact, I’d bet that half the purses in the room Friday night hid contraband. But with Dillon Gym as its venue, ubiquitous orange-and-black pride and one too many senior prom dresses flown in to be worn one last time, the ensuing comparisons to a sober high school dance are sure to become quite stale. But I think that’s why I had so much fun. The omnipresent fixation upon and mindless hunt for alcoholic intoxication that dominates most nights on the Street can, for some, get very old very fast. Only so many times can you go drink for drink with a friend, do inappropriate things, stay up to see the sunrise in a belligerent stupor with a much-too-friendly stranger and then force your friends to hear about it.

But Friday night was different. The vast majority of us were, for once, just content. We seemed to lack that quintessentially competitive Princeton drive to grind on more chicks, drink more, scavenge for more club passes, etc. There was many a sight not normally seen in the clubs: circles of friends and acquaintances dancing goofily, genuine and sober conversations that dealt neither with what nasty things you would do to Jane over there, nor with quantum physics, bumping into and catching up with that friend you regret not having seen since May. For me, the Orange and Black Ball was therefore a melancholy peek into the past. It was an opportunity to relive the times when our days were shorter and simpler and when the chance to dance with friends was something to be anticipated. For this, I am grateful.