When I went to my first Homecoming, I was but a wide-eyed, frail-limbed, primitive freshman still roughing it in the harsh Colorado back-country. I remember that sense of anxious anticipation that tingled up my spine as I tried on the loincloth my mother had sewn me. Made from the hide of a 600-pound grizzly bear my father had killed earlier that year, it was appropriately formal without being over-the-top. Eager to impress my date, a lovely Neanderthal cheerleader named Melinda, I gave her three raw steaks and a wooly mammoth tusk when I picked her up. As she accepted these gifts, I promptly bludgeoned her over the head with my club and hauled her to the dance, as is Colorado custom.

I had a great time at that dance and find it difficult, even three years later, to totally remove myself from those quaint Colorado ways. At this most recent Homecoming, I got in a lot of trouble when I clubbed my girlfriend in a moment of mindless nostalgia. When she finally came to, I apologized profusely, but the embarrassment lingered all night.

Despite the occasional lapse, I have made great progress in adjusting to the Bethesda-style Homecoming celebration. This year, for example, I really got into spirit week. On Wednesday, which was Cops and Robbers day, I showed my school spirit by holding up a liquor store. I also had a great time at the football game, where I swelled with pride as our Wildcats continued their legacy of losing by a huge margin. After an uproarious half-time, highlighted by Sophomore Cameron Krug’s rousing interpretive dance and Mighty Moo’s resurrection (and accidental decapitation), I did my part to uphold tradition and left before the third quarter started.

For the day of the dance, my enthusiasm remained high in spite of the dreary weather. I went to the spa for a French manicure and Swedish massage, then cruised to Bethesda Florist to rummage in the dumpster for a cheap arrangement to give my date. I went home, threw on a suit, wrestled with the tie for an hour, and briefly practiced the Electric Slide in my kitchen. After a painfully long week of waiting, I was more than ready for this huge event.

Fast-forwarding through the mandatory pre-dinner photo-op and the cramped limo ride to D.C., our group enjoyed dinner at the intimate, romantic, and wickedly X-Treme THUNDER GRILL, which is nestled in a snug corner of Union Station. My pan seared mahi-mahi was a hardcore brain-bash of palette-pleasing delight.

Finally arriving at the dance a couple hours later, I felt like royalty as I strolled down the red toilet paper-lined hall and through the Christmas light-adorned archway. Navigating past the horde of sweaty underclassmen who hovered around the trophy case, my date and I entered the dark, steamy gym. We went deep into the murky sweat shop, where upper-middle class teenagers were dry humping to rap music in rhythmless convulsions. The gym reeked of Disney magic.

Needless to say, while lounging at the after party, I realized that it really was a great night. Though the fanfare is ridiculous, it’s a necessary part of the fun. I must confide, however, that I do miss banging a hot Neanderthal broad. On her head, I mean. Banging her on her head.