Satire: It's time for the annual running of the bids

Editor's note: this article is satire.

You’re on campus one Wednesday afternoon, and something feels off. There’s a rare energy in the air — Gucci perfume with hints of Lululemon — and low whispers of Greek letters seem to be echoing from all corners of the Quad. You’ve been camped out under a tree for hours trying to finish up an assignment, but suddenly, even in the September swelter, every hair on your arm is standing up straight. You feel uneasy and apprehensive. 

And that’s when they start to run.

At first, you think it must be a coincidence. A small group of girls in athleisure happen to be running up the Quad at the same time. Maybe they’re all trying to catch the bus? Trying to make it to Granville’s Agora before it runs out of escargot?

But then the rest of the girls spill onto the path, sprinting in swarms, swarming in sprints — a monochrome blur of potential, newness and membership. 

You only have time to duck your head and shield your laptop before they’re onto you, stomping on your thrifted vest and Doc Marten flats, trampling the wire headphones that are still quietly playing Beach House.

As another Golden Goose sneaker hits your groin, you think you finally understand what "Space Song" is really about. 

That’s the last thing you remember before you black out.

Passed out as you are, small moments infiltrate the thick shell of your consciousness. A hand on your arm. Hushed whispers. The words “Bid Day.” Silence.

You open your eyes to a white room with white curtains and a white bed. The color scheme doesn’t look so different from the scene on the Quad, but here the shrieking is gone, replaced with the gentle hum of the patient monitor.

A man approaches your bedside and introduces himself as an anthropologist. He’s studied runs of all kinds —the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona, the cheese-rolling chase in England, the Boston Marathon in, well, Boston — but he says he’s never seen something like this before. 

The man tells you that you were nearly trampled by the ‘Run Home,’ where potential new members (PNMs) run to their sorority house — decked out in themes ranging from Barbie Pink to Nepotism Green—and celebrate with their new family. He tells you that you’re the only person who’s seen the ritual up close and lived to tell the tale.

You agree to tell him everything you know; It’s the only way to ensure that people like you don’t end up in the way of the surge of runners again.

As he pulls out his notebook and starts taking notes, you divulge tales of Chi Os and KDs, of perfectly manicured nails and shaved legs. You strain to recall bits of conversation you overheard: “AHHHH,” “Slay” and “I can’t believe Hailey got a bid."

After you’ve revealed everything you know, the anthropologist thanks you and heads home to start writing the book that will soon dominate every Barnes & Noble in America. 

You’re drained, ready to leave this hospital room and go home to South Campus. But that’s when it occurs to you: the PNMs just want to go home too. Like any human who craves comfort and familiarity and belonging, sorority girls on Bid Day are seeking community. Yes, they could probably achieve this without trampling passersby, but for the first time, you understand them. 

After being released from the hospital (with very minor injuries), you begin the long trek to Morrison. You’re weighed down by your school backpack, but excitement at the idea of seeing your roommates and laying in bed makes your legs move a little faster. You start to pick up speed, knees bending and feet flying, and with a giant leap into the crosswalk you realize: you’re running home. 

@_hannahkaufman

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