It's Friday night, and I just got back from a great party.

The music was just right, the company was fantastic, and, overall, it was the most fun I'd had out all semester.

No, this wasn't at Sig Nu, Pike, or even Brickhouse. Technically, it wasn't a party at all. It was a gala. (Whatever that means.)

In a beautiful hotel in Sanford, Stetson held The President's Gala, where a conglomeration prestigious faculty and wealthy donors attended a dinner in order to raise money for the university. The guest list included Board of Trustees members, high profile lawyers, and successful CEOs, begetting an obvious question: what exactly was I, just your basic average girl, doing there?

If we're being honest, I was mostly wandering around the floor and drinking cranberry juice from a wine glass, like the confused underage sophomore I am. But, according to the program, I was there to give a few "remarks." A speech, more specifically, alongside another Stetson student (who was way more qualified than I was, but I digress.) Our speech was supposed to illustrate the "Stetson experience." Whatever that means.

We were first contracted to speak at this event after participating in short part of a promotional video montage for the school. We were told that, together, we'd make a good team, even though we had never met beforehand. By agreeing to do a five-minute speech, we earned our ticket in. (Our $250 ticket.)

I'm not quite sure what I had expected, other than delicious food, but when I arrived to the hotel wearing my junior year prom dress, I felt a bit out of place. Sure, there were few students there, whom we stuck with most of the night, and a couple familiar faces, but among the six-figure salary makers, it was clear that we did not quite belong.

However, upon arrival, we were expected to mingle. Mix and mingle.

Now, I'd like to think I'm personable person. I can easily strike up, and sometimes hold, a conversation with any of my peers based on common interests or similarities. However, these guests, wearing suits more expensive than my meal plan, were not exactly my peers; they were my goals.

I had nothing to offer them for a stimulating conversation. I am but a little baby sophomore with only a rough idea of what I want to do with the rest of my life.

Walking around the room, pretending to peruse the silent auction bid items, I saw students looking just as out of place as I was. However, I also saw students that seemed to fit right in, and didn't quite understand how they were so self-assured.

Then, I figured it out. It's the tried and true guide when doing anything that makes you mildly uncomfortable: fake it 'til you make it.

After gathering momentum and rhythm, I began approaching people, making small talk, and trying to make an impression. I acted sort of like those unattractive boys you see at the club, hitting on girls who are way out of their leagues, but yet still manage to be confident. That Friday night, I attempted to channel that archetype, and, in a matter of speaking, got lucky. I ended up making contact with several people who could really make a difference in my future, and it was only a little bit awkward.

Then, as soon as I got comfortable with my dinner table, it was time for us to give our speech.

Surprisingly, we did not trip, throw up, or cry during our remarks. So I say it was job well done.

When we stepped off stage, members of the audience, the same prestigious professors and donors, congratulated us, and actually took a keen interest in who we were, what we were studying, and how they could help us in any way possible, big or small.

That, along with the fantastic fish and fancy cheese plate, made the event memorable and, ultimately, a great opportunity.

But now, let's briefly discuss the after party.

Okay, so the auction finally comes to a close, raising thousands and thousands of dollars, and people start drifting out, saying goodbyes, and complimenting the performers (S/O to chamber choir and that very attractive opera singer), and then, the band took over the night.

As soon as I heard Michael Jackson come on, I dragged the beautiful Stetson alums at my table with me to the dance floor. And, let me tell you, age or status has no effect on one's capability to dance.

Dancing in a circle with our university's president, I saw professors, from their late forties to seventies, leaving it all upon the dance floor, where I, self-proclaimed house-party dance queen, had to struggle to keep up.

When the band played "Brickhouse," the entire room erupted into cheers, and collectively "took it down, took it down now." When "Uptown Funk" came on, I swore the room nearly lost all control.

In all earnestness, I haven't had a simple fun night out nearly all semester. There were moments, sure, but either the atmosphere wasn't right, the music was lame (I'm not a EDM fan), or the people just weren't good company. I was in desperate need of some good, clean fun. The last place I expected to get that was at this gala, but there, with a demographic of older, wealthier, and more accomplished people than myself, I had the best Friday night thus far.

During those heated dance battles (yes, they were quite heated,) I probably accomplished more networking opportunities than I ever could at a basic, music-less recruitment fair.

Whether they know it or not, these distinguished individuals and I now have a connection. One that really matters. One that could only be formed while singing Journey's "Don't Stop Believing" and slaying the air-guitar solo.