all greek to me.

Imagine everyone that you ever hated in high school. Imagine anyone who ever made fun of you or made you feel bad about yourself or who ever dismissed you as though you were not even there. Imagine the people you despised but whose friend you still wanted to be. Imagine the people who somehow got a lucky break in terms of parentage and wealth and appearance and never let you forget that you didn't. Get a good picture of all those people in your mind.

Now imagine being in a room with them.

For the first time in my life, I went to a frat party. Josh's band was paid to play an afternoon social event at a hotel turned fraternity house, and I went, like the good, supportive girlfriend that I am, and then I spent the whole time wondering how on earth I had ended up there. The house was this beautiful historic hotel, an old lodge with hardwood floors and big brick fireplaces. I walked in carrying Josh's bass and wondered if it was the place where they shot "The Shining."

This was the rich frat. Greek societies are already known for their wealth, but this was the fraternity where all the brothers had the same last names as well-known companies. While the guys set up and tuned, I looked at the pictures of frat boys past. Rows upon rows of similar-looking, clean-cut white boys wearing matching suits, a few guys with long sideburns or chin-length hair thrown in to keep up the diversity. I noticed a pasty dork every once in a while and wondered if he had to pay extra fees, some sort of unattractive tax. Honestly - I wouldn't be all that surprised.

I looked at my afternoon before me, looming in its polo-shirted expanse, and I decided that I needed a beer. I suppose that's the good thing about being an outcast at a frat party - by definition, there's going to be booze. So I sat and drank my beer while the guys played and everyone else mingled. There were maybe 30 frat guys with a smattering of a dozen or so girls mixed in. Judging by the girls, it was strapless shade-of-red dress day, and I hadn't gotten the memo. I thought it was ratty used t-shirt and jeans with bleach-stain sneakers day. I must have gotten my days mixed up.

It was me and the band against everyone else, a giant game of "One of These Things Is Not Like the Other." See if you can pick us out - we're the ones with the holes in our clothes that were not there when we bought them. True, some of the girls were wearing clothes that were made to look old, as if those girls were trying to look like us, but no one was fooled.

I spent my time listening to the music, drinking my beer, and watching all the pretty people. I was free to do so, because no one spoke to me. I wasn't even a blip on the radar. I was glad, because I was afraid that if anyone were to talk to me, it would be some charitable girl who started the conversation with a kindly, "You know, you could be pretty if you tried."

Then I started wondering if I could be pretty if I tried. I looked at those girls and tried to figure out how they were all different, and yet all somehow the same, wondering if I could duplicate the sameness.

I could do it. Give me six weeks, and I could do it. I only need that long because I have to lose some weight and get a tan. So that means a membership at the tanning salon, and an eating disorder; I picked bulimia since at least I'd still get to eat. It doesn't take long to get an expensive haircut and a manicure, and I'm only a trip to the mall and a maxed-out credit card away from a new, socially-acceptable wardrobe. I'd also have to learn to apply makeup, but I figure with a patient teacher, I could master that, too. Then put me back here and see things change. See who talks to me now.

I think if I had the money and the patience, I would do it. I'd do it just to see if I am right, to see if I am treated differently. I am already instantly accepted in a certain kind of group because of the way I dress, but I want to see if I could get that same immediate acceptance in a group that ignores me now.

Most of those girls were not better-looking than I am. They were mostly regular girls straddling average but making up for it with maintenance. A couple were actually beautiful, and there was one homely one. I have reached a pleasant happy medium where I am mostly satisfied with the way I look without having to work on it too much. And at the end of the afternoon, it was me that the bassist looked over in my ratty t-shirt and bleach-stained sneakers and remarked, "You're hot."