In the following column, all times are approximate. The Interfraternity Council/Panhellenic Dance Marathon dancers don't have any concept of time.
Monday night, four days until Thon: My roommate, president of the Biobehavioral Health Society, gets a call from one of her Thon chairs. One of her dancers has strep throat and won't be able to dance. My roommate immediately volunteers me to take her place. Why not? I went on a few canning trips and raised some pledges. However, my first thought is, "There goes my plan to start drinking at 3 p.m. Friday."
Friday, 4:30 p.m.: And so it begins. First stop, the Nittany Lion Inn for introductions, number pin-ins and to receive our bracelets and Thon backpacks. This year's backpacks are definitely not as nice as last year's. I mean, the only reason I'm doing Thon is for the free stuff. Why else would I do it?
Friday, 5:30 p.m.: The 702 dancers make their way over to Rec Hall, our home away from home for the next 48-plus hours. The human tunnel of supporters brings tears to my eyes and a permanent grin. How am I crying already? There's a gift from my moraler waiting for me in my locker. Yes, more free stuff!
Friday, 6 p.m.: The entertainment begins. NOMMO, with all its extreme energy, gets me even more pumped up. The anticipation is overwhelming. I already am unsure of the time and just want this show to get started. But then, Whiplash performs to Britney Spear's "Toxic" and my secret love for Britney takes over. I'm sure I'll be hearing that song often throughout the weekend.
Friday, 7 p.m.: We're on our feet and ready to go. A few people comment on my 76ers headband. This is the first time I realize I will be missing the game against the Lakers. I guess more sacrifices are to be made than I expected. Five minutes later, I already need to use the bathroom. The line in the women's locker room is practically out the door, which is how it would remain throughout the weekend.
My partner and I make an attempt to use the men's locker room, only to hear that there's a line there, too. It's the only male toilet in the whole country that has a line! Finally, we sneak past a security committee member doing a typically outstanding security job and find a bathroom in a back corner of Rec Hall. Less than a half-hour in,
and we're already breaking rules.
Friday, 8 p.m.: Line Dance time. The Line Dance ended up being the only time throughout the 48 hours when I didn't feel the extreme pain in my feet. One of my fellow dancers has already spent time on canning trips, brainstorming what's going to be in this yearÃRs line dance (Kelly Mazzante, shake it like a Polaroid picture, Bennifer). She was disappointed that some of her ideas didn't make it. There was no way I was going to be able to learn this whole dance. And after sleep deprivation, there was no way I was going to be able to remember it. Way to go morale captains, it only took 57 minutes for us to learn the entire line dance. Why is that such an accomplishment?
Friday, 9:30 p.m.: My roommates are already bringing me presents. I am presented with a sparkly cape that apparently was made with glue that may cause cancer, liver and kidney damage. They also give my three other dancers and me silver balloons so they can easily find us in the crowd. Later, the others would also receive silver capes, and we would run laps around Rec Hall while doing Superman poses. Nothing like balloons and capes to bring out one's inner child. These things kept us busy for about 10 minutes. Where did the time go?
Friday, 10 p.m.: Our Thon family finds us. Or we find them. Most of Thon is spent wandering around the vast floor looking for people you know. We proceed to throw numerous balls to each other or at each other for an extended period of time. What else is there to do? Krista, our 14 year-old, currently-in-remission Thon child allows a smile to cross her face. When you're 14, you can't let anyone see you show emotion. Her 9-year-old sister seems more excited about being at Thon. Krista wants to know when the football players are showing up.
Midnight: My feet are already beginning to hurt, and I'm wondering where to get the painkillers. Too bad over-the-counter products are all that's being supplied. Drunk people begin filing in, making me wonder exactly what time it is. I usually don't leave the bars until last call, so is it only midnight or is it already after 2 a.m.? I really don't appreciate being pushed out of the way on the railing so a drunk girl, who has secured a floor pass, can talk to her boyfriend. Go "support" the dancers you've come to see.
The next few days basically consisted of line dances, dodging flying balls, coloring Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles coloring books, sliding across mats covered in powder and trying to figure out exactly what time it was. And eating. The vast amounts of food were enough to keep me happy, but those Thon people were tricky about when they fed us. You can't throw people's eating patterns off like that.
Sunday morning around breakfast was when the first feeling of delirium set in. I got this weird hazy feeling that can be likened to being stoned, and began to think everywhere I went people were calling my name, when in fact, no one around me was remotely looking in my direction. I never saw things that weren't there, unfortunately.
And though this column may have taken a rather sarcastic view of Thon, I do realize the importance of it, and the place it holds in my life's list of memories. While I can't place it above my experiences during six weeks backpacking through Europe, I can put it high up there. The smiles I saw on kid's faces, the tears I saw in parents' eyes and the joyful weariness I saw in dancers' eyes will never leave me.
Many people don't understand why all this money raising has to culminate in a 48-hour event that doesn't really even involve much dancing. But spend 48 hours doing something that most people could never imagine doing, and you'll understand.
All I know is, I'm never going to get as many backrubs without having to return the favor again.
