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Apologies for domerfest

| Tuesday, February 19, 2019

I know it’s been a while since Domerfest, but I always felt too embarrassed to share this story before, but now I’ve come to terms with it. From what I can tell, there seems to be three types of Domerfest interactions for Saint Mary’s students. Number one is undoubtedly the easiest. You meet a guy or two and you guys start talking and become friends. The friendship may or may not last a long time, but it made the night enjoyable. The second is when you start dating the guy you meet at Domerfest. This is a bit rarer than the first, but it still happens. Then there’s the third. The type of interaction where you get so embarrassed you just sort of hide with the Saint Mary’s friends all night and only talk to guys as a side note when they approach your friends. And if this seems overly specific, that’s because it is.

When I think about Domerfest, there are a few things I clearly remember. I got a free shirt and a free towel, which was nice. My older brother, a junior at Notre Dame, had told me that a guy who he knew was going to be the DJ and also that Domerfest was where I would meet my future husband. The second was just him messing with me, but I did manage to sneak a picture of the DJ and it turns out it was his friend. So I suppose the first part of my Domerfest apology goes to the DJ. Sorry that I forgot your name and just reference you as “the DJ” in my mind, and sorry I took a picture of you and then sent it to my brother without your permission; that would’ve been weird if he didn’t know you.

The second apology goes hand in hand with the main interaction I had with a guy at Domerfest. Before I explain that, I have to explain something about my high school. I went to a fairly strict Jesuit high school in the suburbs of Chicago. To put it politely, most of the guys who went there favored a certain look. Specifically the khaki shorts/polo-shirt-white-guy-wearing-loafers look. Plus our school colors were maroon and gold, while our mascot was the Ramblers (don’t ask me what a Rambler is, no one at our school knew). Anyway, I’m at Domerfest, standing in line for the free ice cream when a men’s dorm from Notre Dame comes in. All the guys are whooping, hollering and jumping, pretty standard Domerfest stuff. They move through the ice cream line and one of them holds out his hand to give me a fist bump while yelling “Yeah, Domerfest!” Two things. One, I couldn’t comprehend the fact that a guy who didn’t know me would ever speak to me, and secondly, not only did he have the look of most guys at my high school, he was wearing a maroon shirt with words in gold.

Then my brain decided, OK, we know this guy, but what’s his name? So I start running through names in my head, just trying to figure out what his name is and what class I know him from. I was also panicking because I thought he would call me by name and then I’d have to fake my way through an “Oh yeah, haha. Thanks … you.” It was at that moment I realized that not only did I not know the person in front of me, he had held out his hand for a fist bump and my response was staring at him blankly for a solid minute. Not moving, not saying anything, just staring like a deer in headlights. Finally my brain realized what an idiot I was being and gave him a fistbump back and luckily he moved on without making a big deal out of it, but to be fair it was probably pretty startling from where he was too. So to that guy, I apologize. I never learned your name and I hope you managed to have a good Domerfest, but just know I’m going to be telling this story for as long as I can remember it.

The views expressed in this column are those of the author and not necessarily those of The Observer.

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