Editor’s note: Sarah is an undergraduate student at Lehigh University. She made the choice to depledge from her Sorority. This is her story.

“Thursdays are fucking mandatory.” It was only a text message, but I could hear the shrill words of my pledge master ringing in my ears. What bullshit, I thought, as I often do after reading almost any text message that is sorority-related. I wasn’t going anywhere; I erased the message without responding.

I lay in bed, waiting for the rest of the text messages to arrive. The classic, “Where the fuck r u?!” or the standard, “ I don’t know why you think pledging is optional.” I think pledging is optional because I am sick. Very sick. Although I don’t even bother telling people that again, because they don’t believe me, let alone ask how I’m feeling. “ We’re all sick. Jill has a stomach virus and she’s still here. Just get here NOW!” Stomach virus? That’s all I need to catch. Of course I’m not going. And Jill shouldn’t either.

I don’t know if it’s because I am older then the rest of my pledge class, or more mature, or experienced, but I do know that jeopardizing your health, or the health of those around you is just stupid. Go home, Jill. And Erica, if you’re all sick, then don’t go out every night and binge drink. It’s just common sense.

I used to not see the difference between freshmen, like those in my pledge class, and real people. Now I do. I am not a freshman. I know this because unlike the rest of my pledge class, I already know myself. I know how to drink…and when to stop. I know that I cannot go out partying until all hours of the night, every night, and still expect to keep up the grades I know I’m capable of. (Dana, if you’re failing two of your classes, then maybe you should consider sitting tonight out.) I know how to handle stress without bashing in the faces of those in my general vicinity, which brings me to another distinction: social grace. Mine is a finely tuned instrument, which I play fluently, and beautifully. Their social grace, if capable of sound, would bring most back to the days of elementary school band concerts, where children pitifully struggled to play the three notes of Hot Cross Buns.

“Look hot tonight,” is the next text I receive. If hot means dressing like the rest of the girls, then count me out. If hot means wearing a shirt as a dress and forgetting underwear, then forget me dressing hot tonight. If hot means getting up on tables and waving my arms in the air, oblivious to the fact that I went commando, then no, I will not look hot tonight; I’ll wear jeans.

I often wonder why I even bother with pledging. It is certainly not the sisterhood that I need. My mother blessed me with two sisters, whose unconditional love for me is ever supportive. Where they lack, my real friends fill in. Friends, who when I’m sick, don’t order me out of bed, but bring me soup and take my temperature without my asking. Friends, who hold me up in the shower when my fever hovers around 104 degrees and I’m unable to stand. Friends, who don’t turn their heads, pretending not to see me around campus, but scream my name and wave their arms around like lunatics to get my attention. Friends. Sisters. That’s not why I’m joining a sorority.

Some girls dream of living in a sorority house, complete with chef, communal showers, and forced triple rooms. I do not. In fact, I have no intention of living in a house with forty other women. I. Would. Die. Between the drama, the cat fights, the trash talking, the fat talking, the raging eating disorders. I cannot live in the house. In fact, I already have specific plans to not live in the house. I signed the lease for my off-campus townhouse months ago. Complete with queen size bed, walk-in closet, and private bathrooms.

Finding it was a miracle. I’ll live with the girl who I did not pay to be my social support system. The girl who asks what I have been doing – interested, as opposed to telling me what I should have been doing, apathetic to any reality beyond sorority events. So, why pledge? I don’t like to go out every night like the rest of the girls in the “sisterhood”. I don’t want to. I’ll admit it. There are times when a few glasses of wine, and the boy of the moment are all I need to fulfill my desires of the night. But every so often, I’ll get that urge. That urge to wear a little extra makeup. That urge to throw on my shortest dress, and my highest heels. That urge to drink to get drunk. To dance on bars, and kick people’s drinks over without a care in the world. Ever so rarely, I’ll get that urge to go out. And when I do, I don’t want to roam the Hill, listening for the loudest music, or looking out for the slightest signs of a party. I want to have somewhere to go every night of the week and someone designated to drive me there. Plus, it really alleviates any competition when girls are expected to back off when I have some frat boy wrapped around my fingers, drooling. And having an entire house of girls pledge not to give any of my past love interests the time of day, just to screw them over, is pretty reassuring after a breakup.

So, why didn’t I pledge? Because Thursdays are not fucking mandatory, and I am more than capable of confidently going to a party without the protection of a social security blanket