BY NOAH SAPERSTEIN

A few weekends ago, Epicuria, one of the only annual parties on campus, probably went down somewhere in a poorly lit basement with meh music. But I don’t really know the details because I didn’t go. Yeah, I thought about going. I hemmed and hawed over it, but in the end, I just didn’t know if it was really what I wanted to do.

Over my four years at Bowdoin, I have often fantasized about Epicuria. I dream about shopping for a bedsheet and transforming it into a flowy, white toga. The cloth would run along my body, conforming to me, engulfing me. Some nights, I get giddy thinking about it. But when we go to Target and select our fabrics, something just isn’t right. The toga is nothing like my imagination. Instead of the warm, familiar comfort I’m seeking, I’m overwhelmed by scratchy, itchy, and abrasive discomfort. But maybe I just haven’t found the right toga yet.

Then there’s the party itself. Sweaty, smelly, sticky, and yet so tempting. In that crowded basement, people bounce around like potatoes on a potato cleaner, forming a beautiful tapestry of drunken college students. The music might be strange and the rugby guys might be a little unconventional, but sometimes I catch myself daydreaming about shotgunning a brewski in Park Row basement.

Upon some reflection, I think I just need to try it and experience it for myself. While my NARP friends might find it odd, this is something I will do for myself. I’m ready for this leap of faith and I no longer fear describing myself for what I am. I am Epicurious.