The Monroe Street Journal

Issue date: 2/4/08 Section: News

Media Credit: Issac Katzav [Click to enlarge]

Media Credit: Issac Katzav [Click to enlarge]

Media Credit: Issac Katzav [Click to enlarge]

The Inn at St. John's was the perfect location for an elegant evening. Michigan's finest was dressed to the nines, nothing less than a black tie was spotted at the MBA Winter Formal on Saturday night. I, the lucky LSA junior, got to tag along with one of our MBA editors to sum up the scene and pretend I was someone I was not. "How do you know Allie?" was the question of the evening. A simple story early in the evening followed, "I'm doing my masters in literary studies here at the University," unbeknownst if there is even such a program, " We know each other from the paper." After a glass of red wine, and then a white, and then a gin and tonic, however, the simple alias we came up with morphed into elaborate lies and momentary slip-ups that I stumbled over to back myself up. Nevertheless, everyone seemed more than happy to talk (and drink) and the formal affair turned out to be quite an unexpected evening.

The evening began with cocktails, hors d'oeuvres, and casual conversation; a classy prom was what I had in mind as we ate our bruschetta and I got introduced to some of Ross' finest. I awkwardly roamed around the apartment where everyone was chatting about jobs and "sections", whatever the hell that meant to a girl who knows the term section as what I go to once a week after an Anthrcul lecture. I kept telling myself I needed to mingle as not to be too obvious. Allie kept looking over at me like I was some inept social calamity, and I decided it was now or never to plunge myself in the conversation. Just as I slowly turned to talk to the two standing behind me, I caught an indiscrete whisper, "who is that that girl?"

"Hiii, I'm Amy!" was what came out of my mouth in an overly excited manner. I had always considered myself to be pretty personable until that moment when the couple stared at me with forced smiles, still wondering the question they were asking themselves before. They seemed to look at me saying, "Ok, so that's Amy. Who the hell is Amy?" Touche, I thought, and realized that my bulls***ting had to take the opportunity as a running start if I even had hopes of getting on the bus to the actual venue.

"I'm doing my masters. I'm in my second year. I wrote for Bloomberg last summer." The lies came out so naturally it was shocking. I think I even told someone I went to the Sudan, and they asked me how it was. It's appalling how gullible such intelligent people can prove to be. But it wasn't long before I could distinguish the shy from the sly (or those that attempted). "So you're doing your masters, do you have any friends here?" Nice one, very smooth line. But I must have let a boyfriend comment slip somewhere in the mix because the gentleman exerting such conversational interest in me suddenly stormed away, found Allie in the kitchen and grunted, "next time, bring single friends. Thanks." I thought I had left the cliché pick up artists at the door of the UGLI; I guess not.

The night was turning out to be more entertaining than I had imagined. I was loosening up and it was time to head to the buses. As I crossed East University, I saw no bus. We sat on the curb for a few minutes, watching students shiver next to us. Some were quiet, some were rambunctious with drink in hand, but all looking stunning for their flashback night to a senior year prom. I laughed out loud as I saw a University of Michigan bus pull up, expecting an actual charter. Apparently I had too high of hopes. I saw a Bursley/Baits sign lit up in the front display, but apparently the MBA students didn't quite get my undergraduate reference. Oops, I was blowing my cover. "Ha, what a great bus…" I tried to cover. The Asian guy standing next to me was somewhat less amused.

We climbed on only to be followed in by an abundance of tuxedo embellished men trying to cram into the back of the bus, most with red wine bottles in hand. It was like an elementary back-of-the-bus competition, plus twenty years and booze. As one of them began imitating a stripper dance on the bus poles, the bus-driver walked back and said, "Only forty, guys. A few of you are gonna have to get off."

"How about I drive, and you wait here" one of them teased in a disgustingly witty tone, followed by an uproar of laughter from his sidekicks. Hm, didn't I hear something about arrogance in the business school? I thought to myself. Nah, must have been another one. The bus ride was quick but the night had only just begun.

We pooled in the ballroom a quick thirty minutes later. Lucky for me, being there meant a lot less talking and a lot more observing. The dance floor was already packed, the bars already swamped, and the chocolate fountains were being swarmed by strappy-shoed women by the dozens. It was interesting to be with such an eclectic group: in the corner there were the middle-aged married couples, sipping on their drinks and pretending like they weren't going to get wild. They would, however inevitably, be the wildest ones on the dance floor in an hour, grinding like Fergie's My Humps was going to be their last opportunity at socially explicit sexuality in their lives.

I did my experimentation on the dance floor for a few minutes but decided my presence was better utilized on the sidelines. As I texted myself funny notes to insure that I somewhat clearly recalled the entire evening, I realized what actually set me apart from all of these MBA students. I didn't look too young, I didn't carry myself like a toddler, I didn't get too carried away with my fabricated life. Oh no, it was my phone: my cranberry red Krazr set me apart from the Crackberries and iPhones in the building. Apparently, in the business school, one can tell a lot about a person from the phone they carried. I thought I noticed the guy on the bus eyeing my juvenile communication device, but I thought it couldn't be so. But it was.

It was getting late-or at least I thought, but there was really no way of telling because I grounded my phone to my purse for the rest of the evening-and the party was really getting carried away. I saw Allie and Erica (two of MBA editors for the paper) getting wild on the dance floor. They spotted me from a distance, trying to take in as much as possible while not immersing myself entirely in the culture, and Allie said, "Thank you so much for raising my social capital!" At that very moment, I was immersed and I realized only at a Ross School of Business "prom" would I have received that type of gratitude.

My night was almost up, but I still felt there was something essential I needed before I could go home and write this summary of the evening completely adequately. I didn't know quite what it was that I was missing, but I needed one last thing. I waited fifteen, twenty, even thirty minutes, and then it hit me that it was right in front of my eyes: have you ever actually watched a group of MBA's dance?

Besides the M.J. impersonator five feet away from me trying to do the splits and then slapping his dates behind, I realized that this was the essential criteria for exploration and entirely necessary to share with the rest of the world. Now, I'm not saying the rest of us are Russian ballerinas, but give an MBA a cosmo, put on some Nelly Furtado, and you have yourself a show just about as price-worthy as a front row ticket to Sinatra in Vegas. The only difference is, instead of jumping up and down to Soulja Boy, the dancers took more familiarly to Wake Me Up Before You Go Go, but that's all details that have fallen into the age gap. I suppose I left Saturday night with one familiar feeling (as an undergrad at the University of Michigan) and a moral to the story: the MBA Winter Formal was essentially a frat party.

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