In college, Monday was our only day off each week. As Division-1 college soccer players, the NCAA and alcohol gods decreed the team got one day of rest. Oftentimes, our coaches required we lift weights on Mondays. But we didn't have to run. On Mondays, the most running I integrated into my day was from the weight room to the bathroom, so I could vomit my hangover in the middle of our lifting session. As each week neared Sunday, my teammates and I would walk the halls chanting, "Sun-Day-Night-Sun-Day-Night-Sun-Day-Night," in ever-increasing intonations. Sunday nights kept us college students. Those nights kept us sane.
One Sunday night sophomore year, my then-boyfriend visited. A few hours and twenty-eight Flip Cup games later, we pitched from my friend's apartment to my dorm room. Our drunken weight supported each other as if we were conjoined at the shoulders. We got to my dorm room, and I shed my clothes faster than a four-hundred-pound thirty-five-year-old virgin. And then I fell into deep drunken oblivion.
The next morning, Boyfriend and I awoke. I opened the door to find my eyes enraged and squinting against the light. My eyeballs were under the impression that they were Asian. My body bore resemblance to a decrepit blob fish. A bright yellow Caution: Wet Floor sign two doors down in the middle of the hallway attacked my slit eyes. A paper reading: "Someone peed here last night. Eeewww," was taped to the sign's side.
While the rest of the university's student population recovered on Sunday nights, the female soccer team plastered beer and rum on our faces and livers. I cocked my eyes to Boyfriend.
"Did you pee there last night?" I asked him.
"I don't know. I don't think so. The only inappropriate place I've pissed before is in your bed. And I didn't piss your bed last night. Did you pee there?"
"I don't think so."
We headed to the elevators.
I returned to my dorm room that night where my roommate, Hobag, was waiting for me. She was as giddy as if she had just orgasmed twelve times.
"So, did you have a good night last night?" she inquired with a loonybin smile.
"Ya, great night. Played a-lot of Flip Cup!"
"No hallway adventures?" she probed, her smile hijacking her face.
"No... Do you know something I don't know?"
"Have you seen the pee sign in the hallway?" she asked.
According to Hobag, at three in the morning, I stumbled out of our room and donkey punched the door of the soccer boy's room next to ours. When the door didn't open, I popped a squat and peed. Some girl living down the hall was coming home and saw me peeing in the middle of the co-ed hallway. I was butt ass naked. She told the baseball boys she lived next to, who told Hobag, who told me.
"Oooh no. I must have had to pee and thought that the soccer boy's room was the bathroom," was my only response.
From my room, you had to walk a minute and a half down the hallway to arrive at the women's restroom. The male toilets were next door, on the left-hand side. Whenever I was shithoused drunk and couldn't be bothered to walk a minute and a half, I would piss in the male restroom. I only ran into our male RA once.
At that moment, a knock on our door reverberated through the room and my cerebral cortex. I ducked under my raised bed. Our friends never knocked, they just walked in. A knock was never good. Hobag opened the door to our RA.
"Emergency floor meeting in five minutes," he announced with Bin Laden's hospitality.
Hobag attended the forty-minute meeting. I ate popcorn in our room. The meeting concerned the repulsive urine in the hallway accompanied by an entreaty that if anyone knew who was responsible, to tell the RA.
I called Boyfriend.
"Oh ya, you definitely walked out of the room naked at one point in the night. I forgot about that. Didn't know you peed," he replied, as reassuring as cauliflower.
"You allowed me to walk out of the room naked? Why didn't you stop me?"
"I might have mentioned that you should put on clothes. But then you just walked out."
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