Over the past four years, I have made an annual pilgrimage to Champaign, Ill. It is not exactly my favorite place on the planet: I prefer cities where trees outnumber gas stations. Still, one of my best friends from high school, Kelsey, is a student there, so I happily make the trek down once every 365 days.
While I am a very loyal Badger who believes UW-Madison is the definitive “work hard, play hard” university, some of my most memorable college moments have played out in that central Illinois haven, the most recent of which went down this past weekend. As such, I will tell the tales of Jacqueline at U of I, both because they are embarrassingly amusing and because it is a nice way to cap off this chapter of my life. Come Kelsey’s graduation, no amount of money would move me to visit that town again (I am trying to be nice but honestly Champaign is just butt ugly).
Scandalous sleepwalking
I have been sleepwalking since I was a kid. To this day, my parents like to tell the story of an 8-year-old Jacqueline walking into their room at 3 a.m., announcing we needed to buy vanilla ice cream, then promptly returning from whereabouts she came. This is an amusing anecdote, but with summers spent at camp, a year in Witte Hall and numerous sleepovers dotting my history, I am perpetually worried about when I will sleepwalk next and what ridiculous things will ensue when it happens.
This fear came to a head my freshman year while visiting Kelsey. After an evening of casual shenanigans, we headed back to her room and conked out for the night. At some point—a point I have absolutely no recollection of—I put on my boots and decided to go for a late-night stroll through the dormitory. Because of my sleepwalking status and unfamiliarity with the building, I returned not to Kelsey’s room, but that of four dudes. Kelsey and I had been sharing her bed, so I pushed some stranger over/into a wall, groaned, “Kelsey moooove,” and passed out.
Some unknown amount of time later, one of my bedmate’s roommates awoke incredibly puzzled to find me—a stranger who was not this fellow’s girlfriend—asleep next to this guy. Choosing the awakening method of poking and prodding at my face, the gents shook me from my slumber to ask who the hell I was and where I belonged. Still in the midst of my sleepwalking adventure, I objected to their claims that I was in the wrong room, eventually revealing, “It’s fine. I know Kelsey!” With that, I was escorted back to her room, and after several minutes of boisterous knocking, my dear friend groggily came to the door, where she was informed, “You lost this.”
Again, I remember none of this, and I know what you are thinking: Blame it on the a-a-a-a-a-alcohol. Honestly, I wish I could, because that would mean I could prevent situations like this one. Alas, I am just a pawn in God’s personal version of “The Sims,” and like sending a character to swim in a pool without ladders, this is the plight I have been dealt.
Bedtime at Unofficial
Every year, the Illini host Unofficial, a St. Patrick’s Day celebration that is really just a poor man’s Mifflin. Still, an event characterized by hundreds of hammered people dressed head-to-toe in green is bound to yield a good story or two, so allow me to share mine with you.
Generally speaking, I am the poster girl for the depressant nature of alcohol. No, the beverage does not move me to uncontrollable, “I JUST WANT A BOYFRAAAND!” tears, but it does make me fall asleep anywhere and everywhere I see fit, which is, conveniently enough, anywhere and everywhere.
Case and point: Unofficial 2010. I had imbibed enough of the sauce to be good and goofy, but certainly not enough to pass out. Still, by 8 p.m. I was like a moth to the flame of couches and beds at all of the many stops on our evening’s apartment crawl. Every time we arrived at a new residence, my friends would tuck me into some stranger’s bed, take photos that nullified any chance I had at political office and then leave me to snooze while they downed more whiskey and green beer.
I feel it is a little pathetic that most of my trip was forgotten not because of over-indulgence, but because I was asleep the whole time. Still, one of the moments I do vaguely recall was nomming on Papa John’s at one in the morning while my friend rambled on about her sexual escapades and desire to do it doggie style. At least the night was not a total loss.
(Nothing over-the-top happened during my junior-year visit. Apologies.)
DJ Jacqueline emerges
And then there was this past weekend. I again drove down for Unofficial for what was to be my last venture to glorious Champaign. I got to town by noon, having made great time thanks to a red minivan with a “U of I Mom” bumper sticker in front of me going 90 miles per hour down I-57 (say what you will about Illinois drivers, Wisco, but we get from Point A to Point B before our hair turns gray).
The afternoon was a bit of a mess. Due to some questionable avocado spread on my Jimmy John’s Beach Club, I spent the afternoon sleeping off a stomachache. Still, I pride myself on my ability to rally, so come nightfall my most triumphant return was characterized by the emergence of my alter ego: DJ Jacqueline.
Call me uncool, but I am not one for staying up on the latest beats and rhymes. As such, my tenure as DJ Jacqueline was classified mostly by ’90s hits punctuated with Camp Randall classics. Because of my tummy troubles I refrained from heavily drinking, but nothing gets you pumped quite like a room full of drunkards belting out every word of “Bye Bye Bye.”
The rest of the night was more of the delightful same, but it came to an abrupt end for me when a girl cried out three seconds into “Jump Around,” “This song sucks,” opting instead for Miley Cyrus’ “See You Again.” Truth be told, it was an indicative moment to end my Champaign travels with. The Illini know how to party, but they do not have anything on us Badgers.
This column is dedicated to Kelsey, who always shows me a good time while refusing to let me make too big a fool of myself. But are you mad about the butt ugly comment? Sorry! Take it up with me at jgoreilly@dailycardinal.com.
