The Price of a Good Story
Second semester of sophomore year, one of my best friends and I left our sorority date party prematurely and underwhelmed. Neither of us had brought real dates, and after bouncing between college bar pre-games, overpriced Ubers, and a venue as forgettable as the rest, nothing remotely eventful had happened. Back in the kitchen of our sorority house—purses splayed across the table, boots kicked off on the floor—we slumped into our seats and declared the night a failure.
And then, in the thick of our performative misery, I had a thought. A slightly concerning one.
Even though the night hadn’t ended in tears or dramatics, maybe it would have been better if something bad had happened. Not tragic by any means—just story-worthy. Because then, at least, I’d have a tale to spin the next morning. Something to trade in that sacred hungover debrief.
I call it anecdotal currency. If you’re a woman in your twenties, you probably know the feeling: the value of a story shared across a messy bedspread, mascara crusted in the corner of eyes and voices hoarse. You’re not just recapping—you’re performing, still half-drunk (or pretending to be), hoping your bad decisions land a laugh. Or at least, that’s how it was for me.
When I woke up the morning after this particular date party, let’s just say I was socially bankrupt. In response to every inquiry about my night, I could only muster a weak “it was good.” But, I couldn’t help but feel embarrassed that I was letting myself be so bothered—simply because I wanted the feeling of having something worth retelling. What did that say about me? About us? Are we living for the fun, the connection, or just the story?
It’s easy for me—and maybe for you too—to fall into the trap. After all, these days we’re constantly surrounded by people’s highlight reels: Instagram posts with clever captions that somehow make our boring college campuses look glamorous, captured with just the right amount of zoom and lowered exposure. And so, we can’t help but ask ourselves: Why don’t I have something worthy to share? And when we start to feel like we constantly need something to share, that's when the pursuit of anecdotal currency takes over—when we begin to measure our nights, not by how much we enjoyed them, but by whether they can be turned into stories worth telling.
But in the moments when the story isn’t there, when the night just falls flat, there’s nothing left to do but be honest. The truth is, sometimes it’s okay to have an uneventful night. To not be the one with the wild story to tell, to be the one listening to others’ stories or just living in the quiet of it. Because maybe real life doesn’t need a punchline.
