I wasn’t able to truly comprehend the idea of the “Sunday Weirds” until I woke up after Marathon Weekend (toga, tailgate, RAD)[1] with cornrows in my hair. Yes, these cornrows did have colorful star beads dangling from them, and no, I didn’t fly to Jamaica to get them. I walked into a dorm room in Pierson and got my hair pulled by a skinny white girl.

The “Sunday Weirds” n. [suhn-dey weerds]

You know, the “Who am I?” “What am I going to do next year?” “Should I be applying to banking jobs too — I mean, everyone else is.” These ubiquitous amounts of anxieties that creep through our stomachs are only made worse by Retro Cringe, which is bound to follow soon after.

Retro Cringe n. [re-troh krinj]

We’ve all had it. That moment when you are gaily skipping down Broadway only to be interrupted by some memory of your night: maybe it was begging your best friend to date you. Maybe it was attempting to walk on your hands outside of Box 63 — you are male and weigh 200 pounds, you aren’t Gabby Douglas.

But, whatever it was, you remember it, and cringe. Your skip turns into a saunter and you decide to find your way to a small cubby in the basement of Sterling and avoid Facebook at all costs. You know the tags will come.

This weekend was indeed a marathon. One arm has an unexplained bruise. The other has three patches of arm hair missing, as a result of ripping off my “Calhoun Loves Our Bulldogs” stickers, which I wore proudly despite our defeat.

We seniors made the last togas of our lives. (Well, actually, my friend’s parents still attend an annual toga party. I’m crossing my fingers to be on next year’s guest list.)

But still, with fear of never, ever again fastening a sheet around myself with safety pins or be called a toga-guru, I became extremely attached to my toga. I was so attached, in fact, that I felt the need to incorporate it into every outfit of the weekend. It functioned as a shawl at Tailgate[2], an armband at RAD and now as a blanket for my blue stuffed giraffe named Morphine.

But now, a few days later, I realize the time has come to clean my room and throw away the dirty piece of fabric. I mean, come on, I’m not Steven Tyler.

We can all get so consumed by our memories, our pasts, that we begin to believe that if we let go of even the smallest strand of the memory, the entire memory, good or bad, will be lost forever. But maybe it’s these exact memories that hold us back, anchor us down, and catalyze our “Sunday Weirds.”

Maybe, if you throw away your toga, you’ll let go of the fact you have no job lined up for next year, you won’t mind that you have never attended a naked party, and you may finally stop being scared of walking alone down Crown St. It’s a scary thing to let go of what you know, to let go of the consistencies in your life, but sometimes, that’s just what you need to get rid of those “Sunday Weirds.”

My friend once told me that I live my life like a rock star. He then coldly and bluntly reminded me that I’m not one, and that I will most likely be eating oatmeal for breakfast, lunch and dinner once I’m off the meal plan. I told him to fuck off and continued to eat my eggs, reminding him that oatmeal isn’t even gluten-free.

But maybe we can all learn from rock stars. Their lives get plastered on the cover of US Weekly and some of it is fact, but a lot of it is fiction. They roll their eyes and continue to produce music, letting go of last week’s cover story. That’s all you can really do: roll your eyes and carry on. If we all just keep living, if we forget about our old togas, and learn from our cringes, Sundays will just be Sundays. We can’t relive the past — it’s gone forever. But today, we can be whomever we want, and I don’t know about you, but I want to be a rock star.

[1] For those of you who haven’t ventured past the Shell gas station, it’s the ’80s party at the frat that thinks it’s badass.

[2] Yes, it deserves a capital letter. Tailgates are more important to me than who wins the game.