You’re driving back onto campus after a quick trip to Walmart, and that’s when you see them. The cones. They’re everywhere. Far too many of the little orange things to be necessary. And as if the massive amounts of cones aren’t overkill enough, there are at least five guys in yellow, reflective vests making extra sure that you don’t run over the unsuspecting pedestrians. Sorry sir, I forgot this wasn’t Grand Theft Auto. Thank you for reminding me that these aren’t AI’s in a video game for me to drag along under the axles of my car at 120 mph.
After this initial unpleasantness, depending on where you live, you may have to prepare yourself for a fight to the death for a parking spot anywhere near your living quarters. Although, it’s really hard to stay mad when the people taking your parking spot are adorable old couples or bouncy young families here to listen to something the music department or some other event. Damn the common human vulnerability to adorable things.
Recently, however, the campus wasn’t overrun with cute old couples, young families, or high schoolers super excited for prom. This time the place was crawling with dance moms. And I know what kind of horrors that term calls to mind. You’ve seen the shows on TLC, don’t even lie. These moms, sporting no nonsense ponytails and matching sweats, tugging along their daughters, sequins, leotards, tights, glitter, shockingly red lipstick and all, swarmed McAllister in hordes. You’re not quite sure why, but the sight makes shivers run down your spine.
You’re trying to get across campus because you’re late to a meeting at the Trone Center. You get to the roundabout near the front gate and there she is. A lost dance mom. Despite the easy to see signs, despite the many orange cones littering the pavement, despite the vested guys waving their hands sporadically, this mom is confused and unsure of where to go. Thus, inevitably, she is going about two mph around the fountain and down the mall. You’ve got a nice view of the back of her minivan the whole way across campus. As you try to resist the primal urge to bang your head against your steering wheel, you take a deep breath and just remember this: you can’t expect a dance mom to know this campus as well as you and the delivery guys from Papa Johns.
You finally reach your destination and find the Trone Center parking lot refreshingly empty and devoid of children in makeup. You sigh in relief and relax the tension in your shoulders as you turn into your destination, leaving the wandering dance mom to her hopeful quest to find the place she drove past 10 minutes ago. You go to your meeting and forget about the incident.
But then you leave the sanctity of the Trone Center once your meeting has come to a close. You whistle as you stroll to your car, innocent to the things awaiting you across campus. You’ve already forgotten what to expect. It’s out of sight out of mind, the mentality of the Furman bubble. But as you near your home port, you are forced to remember because, an hour and a half later, the competition is still roaring and the dance mom’s are, unbelievably, still milling around the parking lots. There are dance moms outside, inside, in cars, in the parking lots, on the sidewalks, in the streets; they’re everywhere. You suppress a shrill scream mixed with fear and frustration as you step on the gas to get past as quickly as you can. Mercifully, you find a spot for your car and hurry inside to the relative safety of student housing. You lock your door behind you and lean against it, calming your heart rate. You’ve dodged the dance moms for now. You can only hope tomorrow morning will reveal a emptier, less glittery campus.
