It's All Greek to Me

In my mind, I imagine it like an AA meeting.  Tucked away in a midtown church basement, a semi circle of disparate people, held together by a tenuous thread, shuffle their folding chairs into position as the meeting begins.

"Hi.  I'm Jane.  And I'm a . . . Pi Beta Phi," I stammer.

"Hi, Jane!"

It's true.  I am a Pi Beta Phi, even if I tend to reference it in the past tense.

So, why all the discomfort?  It's not like I'm admitting to getting my thrills from huffing cans of whipped cream or something.   After all, I did nothing during my four-year sorority tenure to be ashamed of.  Well, that's not entirely true.  But I did nothing terribly out of the ordinary during those formative years.

I mean, everyone occasionally goes the wrong way on a one-way street, right?

I think it comes down to image control.  For some bizarre reason, long ago, in a Ford Galaxy far, far away, I settled upon an image of myself.  Not an overly flattering image, but one I found peace in, nonetheless.  It's an image of a plain girl, not prone to fancy things or ritualistic tendencies. 

Stereotypically speaking, I settled on a non-sorority-going image of myself, even though I willingly pledged my faith to the wine and silver blue of Pi Beta Phi.

And I enjoyed those four years on campus, meeting nice folks from across the nation, most of whom had a better fashion sense than I ever would, but all of whom seemed to accept me for who I was.  But I still tend to blush when word gets out that I once owned t-shirts with Greek letters on them.  At lunch, when such truths unravel themselves between bites of day-old leftovers, the news is usually greeted first with a collective gasp and then, soon after, with great guffaws of laughter.

Well, so be it.  I'm a 50+-year-old woman who's birthed me some children, had me some jobs and lived me some life.  Why not complicate the simple picture others have of me and throw in a little Greek life? 

Today, then, I pledge a new/old beginning, as I weave my way towards downtown for a Pi Phi reunion of sorts.  Sure, there will be moments of weirdness, when I flash back to musty images of times spent in that grand, old house on 16th Street.  And I'm certain to struggle with synapses as folks I haven't seen in 30 years come back into my circle of life, if only for an afternoon.

But I'm going to be open to it all, even if I take some ribbing.  I'm going to let myself enjoy that strange sensation known as "reunion," laughing with folks who, long ago, accepted me despite my square peggishness, people who took me under their crisp, Polo-inspired wings and gave me second and third chances, as needed. 

Who knows?  I may even utter a few lines from some Pi Phi favorites, no longer embarrassed as the ditties come pouring happily from my unembellished  lips, remembering what it was that I enjoyed all those long years ago.

"Pi Pi Beta Phi!  P-I-P-H-I Pi Phi!  Me for my for Beta Phi for I just love Pi Beta Phi!"