Shackin’ It

I was recently asked to spend the night at the Boaz Penthouse. Asenior sleeping at a freshman dorm — don’t I feelcool?

Sorry boys, but I had to decline. Not that you guys aren’tthe absolute bombdigitty shiz, but that would be against my betterjudgment. Granted, it is only spending the night, and when you werea kid, it was called a slumber party. Try using that term now, andyou’ll get some awkward looks.

In this stage of our lives, I believe the proper term forspending the night anywhere but at your own place is”shackin’ it.” That’s right. You knowexactly what I’m talking about. We’ve all had to spendthe night elsewhere, a lot of times because we can’t quitemake it home on our own and no DD is within close proximity.However, in order to qualify as shackin’ there are severalconditions that must be met.

One, where you spent the night had to have been at aperson’s house. The library absolutely does not count. Or ifyou spent the night on the sidewalk down fraternity row, youcan’t claim to have shacked. I think that’s calledpublic intoxication.

Two, when shacking, there must be two parties involved, theshacker and the shackee. You, the shacker, like a freeloader, hadto have spent the night with a particular person, the shackee. Thatdoesn’t necessarily mean that anything scandalous or wrongwent on between you and that person. But if all you did was crashon someone’s couch or pass out in someone’s closet byyourself, then that’s all you did — crash or passout.

Finally, you cannot be dating the person you were with;otherwise, all you did was sleep over at your boyfriend orgirlfriend’s place, and that is not shack-worthy.

The hardest part about shacking is the dreadful walk home thenext morning. Most of the time, guys don’t shack. It’susually the girls who shack it at a guy’s place, whichdoesn’t make sense to me. After all, a girl’s place isa much nicer place to be shackin’ it. Why on earth wouldanyone want to shack among a pile of half-eaten pizza boxes andempty beer cans?

But suppose a guy did end up shackin’ it. The walk homewould probably be considered the parade of triumph, but for ladies,it’s the walk of shame. Contacts stuck to the back of youreyeballs, mascara running, hair tangled, you try to gather up allof your belongings: keys, purse and shoes. You seem to find yourpurse and keys just fine, but for some reason, your shoes alwaysget separated. You spot one of them underneath the bed, but wherethe hell is the other one? You want to get out of there beforeanyone can see you, before you look over at Prince Snoring andrealize this was a case of coyote-ugly. But you’re stillsearching for the other shoe!

For the love of Pete, where is the other shoe?

You’re searching frantically, and you finally spot it.It’s exactly where you left it – in the bathroom by thetoilet as you yacked and yacked before you shacked.

You’re walking, trying to be very indiscreet about it, butthat’s impossible. No one goes for a walk at 8 a.m. inclubbing clothes. Three-inch heels and a miniskirt are notappropriate attire for walking.

Oh and the runners. You must pass about a dozen runners on theway back to your place.

Runners don’t compare to walking home on a Sunday morningamong all the nicely-dressed church-goers. You know they’restaring at you, judging you in your miniskirt and three-inchheels.

Don’t think your roommates don’t know whereyou’ve been all night. They know. What is understood need notbe discussed. They can tell by the grin on your face the minute youwalk through the door.

So…have you shacked lately?

Ann Truong is a math and electrical engineering double major.She may be reached at [email protected].