The Night of the Sides '95.

So, in a fit of rage after work today, I decided to call Jules on the car ride home to vent. As always, our conversations start with a current event, and end up with a review of some of the ridiculousness we experienced at one point or another in college.

So, this time, the conversation started with my exasperation at the ignorance of general rules of consideration and politeness, and ended up with a discussion of the infamous late September, 1995 evening better known as "The Night of the Sides."

See, by September, 1995 was shaping up to be a pretty decent year. I successfully completed my first full year of college, and was almost two months into my sophomore year at UF when God decided to remind me that shit flows downwards. In what seemed like seconds, I lost a close, longtime friend (or maybe it would be more accurate to say that she lost me), and was on the verge of losing another person, who had not only been the sole object of my affection for over a year, but had also become one of my closest allies in the battle for self-discovery and growth known as undergrad.

The big blow up started on that horrible Saturday night that some of you may remember, where I sat in my beloved suitemates' room, listening to every possible thing I didn't want to hear at that time: all about my friend from home (who insisted that she was going to help me "land" my object of affection), actually going after said object after he admitted his feelings for her. This, of course, was coming from his mouth, and the torture seemed to go on forever. He insisted that he understood how I felt (which to this day, I find grossly impossible), and wanted us to "stay friends like we are, no matter what happens." His next request? "Please, be fair to her," he pleaded, "She feels horrible about this, and she doesn't know what to do. She really wants to talk to you and work things out." Although that cynical, angry, hurt part of me protested, I agreed to do my best.

The next two days were spent in a self-imposed silence, wrapped in a cocoon of agonizing solitude. My dearest roommates, even the skanky one with no conscience or soul whatsoever, did their best to keep me occupied and support me. I can honestly remember doing nothing for the next two days but staring at the sky while sitting out on the low wall behind Beaver West. I would even occasionally look to the little bridge that connected Beaty and Jennings, which was the hall my supposed friend lived in. I thought it was funny that for someone who was reportedly "torn up" about the situation, and who really wanted to talk to me and "work things out," and who lived a spit away from me, she had been glaringly scarce over those two days.

It was only by Monday, when I had been face-to-face with her in between classes, and she looked at me dumbly and said nothing, that I had seen just how "horrible" she felt. And in my need for release, that evening, I was going to call her and tell her exactly what I thought of her cowardice. But I got another phone call first.

It was the object of my affection, calling to check up on me. In his awkward attempts (and attempts at this point, by any one of us, would be nothing but awkward) to "keep our friendship the same," he offered to come over to cook me dinner. Stupidly and selfishly, I accepted. He came over with two boxes of macaroni and cheese, our staple food. I always found it idiotically impressive that he could make the mac and cheese without measuring instruments. He suggested having a side dish to go with it. The only thing I had was mashed potatoes.

Twenty minutes later, we both had two bowls in front of us, and ate mac and cheese and mashed potatoes in uncomfortable silence, both shoveling food into our mouths and looking down at the table so we couldn't look at or talk to each other. It was the most awkward dinner I've ever had, emotionally and content-wise. And I got terribly bloated afterwards.

And right after he left, good old what's-her-name called. Thus "The Night of Sides" became "The Night the Beaver West Girls Turned Off Melrose Place to Watch Something Else of Spelling Proportions Live." But that's another story, for another time. Suffice it to say, all that carbo-loading really got my Irish up.

Speaking of Irish, Happy Friggin' St. Patrick's Day, everybody!

If you'll excuse me, I think I need an extra helping of cabbage, an some more of those potatoes... Gotta fit the last bit of corned beef in before it turns midnight, and it becomes Friday, and I can't have any blasted meat...