Ah Foxfield. It’s that one special day of the year when UVa students don their most expensive clothing to go to an over-priced darty that’s not only stewing with police who need to reach their quota before the end of the month, but is also BYOB. It’s a concept so stupid, only students at one of the smartest universities in the country could enjoy it. And enjoy it we do. Unfortunately, we were unable to participate in the drunken shenanigans that occurred. Before anyone asks, no, we did not stay sober just so we could write an article about it (we don’t care that much about journalism, this isn’t the Cav Daily).
Why the fuck do we have to get up so early again? We have a plot, not one is going to take the plot, so why can’t we wait til like noon to get to the plot?
Second alarm goes off, and we finally get up. Since we cannot indulge in the mimosas our roommate is currently drinking, we brew some shitty coffee and get to work trying to look decent enough for an Instagram photo. Then we throw sunglasses on when we realize there is no hope for covering the dead look in our eyes.
We head to the meeting point for (insert name of random club/frat/acapella group here) and (insert name of other random club/frat/acapella group of the same caliber here). Everyone around us is already buzzed, and most people have started on hard liquor since they’re tipsy enough not to care about being dubbed an alcoholic.
No one can find their bus at the Beta Bridge. The only thing our party planner told us was that it was white, which becomes a problem when we realize the busses at UVa are more whitewashed than the student body.
We finally find a bus that might be ours (who the fuck cares they’re all going to the same place), and sit down with the only other sober person here: the mom friend.
This bus is really loud, and our mouth is getting kinda dry, so we may or may not have a couple shots of coconut rum. Oops.
We finally arrive at Foxfield. Since it rained all day the day before, we step off the bus into 3 feet of mud that covers our bare legs and makes us all look like we’ve been bleeding. Then, we’re herded like cattle past the security guards and into the field. There are no foxes. We are disappointed.
During this time, there’s still food available at our plot, the sunscreen hasn’t worn off yet, the ‘hot jamzzz’ playlist is still on its first run through, and the rum buzz hasn’t worn off. We start to think that maybe staying sober at Foxfield isn’t such an awful thing.
One of our friends who seemed ok starts puking, and we take back everything we just said about enjoying this shit.
The actual races start, and we manage to get a good view of the horses since we’re the only ones sober enough to remember they exist. The races are, admittedly, very cool, but they do prevent us from captioning our Instagram post “I didn’t see a horses *winky face, horse emoji, girl flipping her hair emoji*”.
We realize we forgot to take Instagram pics before everyone was too smashed to function, but refuse to give up. We corral all our friends into a spot with decent lighting, shove sunglasses and giant floppy hats on those who are too drunk to pass as sober, and smile like this doesn’t suck.
We walk back to the sea of white buses and spend 15 minutes getting off and on different ones looking for someone from our original party. Finally we give up and sit down.
The bus, which said it would leave at 3 no. matter. what. finally pulls away, and we fall asleep.
We wake up, remember that it’s just as possible to be hungover from sleep deprivation as it is to be hungover from alcohol, and bang our head against the bus seat for spending $60 on this bullshit.
That was fun.
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