Gettin' Schooled

Today marks my survival of the third week of my junior year.  And for a while there, it wasn't a sure thing that I'd make it through sanity intact.

My schedule has been tampered with (by myself), leading to a most irresponsible abandonment of social science credit for the pure pleasure that is Greek.  (Divide those double consonants, my fellow Hellenist brethren!)  My gluttony for punishment has led to much lunchtime and nighttime meeting for discussion with friends and club officers.  My brain is overstimulated.  My wallet grows ever thinner.  And I have picked up a pesky tendency towards insomnia.

Despite all this I find myself radiantly happy.

I have a room all to myself this year, which is helpful when you're a privacy-craving and self-embarrassing shy creature like myself.  The house on Sinto has been called a social experiment, and so far it is proving a successful one.  Food is good.  Classes are, for the most part, scintillating (though workload is a wee bit intense).  I have...a few jobs, actually, which is good, though none of them have actually started paying me yet.  That should start soon, though, and then I shall have great rejoicing and more than my currently ridiculously meagre balance to purchase Jackhammers with.

Additionally, I keep falling in love.  Like a ridiculous amount.  Like five times a week with different people.  So far I have done nothing about this; defense of reasons below.  Love is a terrible thing; never do it.  But the male gender is beautiful and worshipful, especially when you catch them eyeing you with a certain dumb reverence, or when you startle them into smiling, or when you find yourself having conversations about megaphones with ones you've never (or only just) met.  You know, I used to think that there were just not any good (moderately intelligent good-looking good-hearted) boys in the world.  Now I begin to suspect that there are many who meet at least the minimal criteria. 

To any who suffer for what seems to be a dearth of male attention I prescribe the following program:
1) Become convinced that you are a catch.  It is not enough to think of yourself as tolerable, or even " better than the airhead bimbos who go through beaus like I go through Baudelaire."  You are witty, smart, sensible, capable, confident, drop-dead gorgeous, and decent, and any guy with the self-awareness of a turnip would be flabbergasted by his good fortune should he land you.
2) However long you spend getting ready in the morning, take another three minutes.
3) Keep your head up and smile at everyone you make eye contact with.  Smile deeply into the eyes of (and perhaps wave slightly at) anyone you think particularly interesting.

Now sit back and be astonished at the many random encounters with decent people, at least half of which should be of your gender of attraction, you have. 

Not that I am saying this is a surefire way of finding one's soulmate on the first time round.  In fact, being a single gal with pretensions to a wedded vocation, this idea has preyed upon my mind somewhat of late, and therefore we come to the first tentative proposition of this post.

I call it, "The Snarling Id is a misogynist bastard."

Now, ladies: the world is wretchedly unfair.  Women achieve emotional maturity at around age 11, and as far as I can tell, men never do.  (Poop.  See, if you're a guy and you read that, you're laughing now.)  Women are obliged to spend half an hour minimum every day touching up their appearances before entering the marketplace of commodified bodies, like Lady Gaga and the creepy Rape Auction in the "Bad Romance" music video, whereas men get kudos if they've showered in the past week.  And added to this, women on the dating scene operate in some sort of weird limbo between different paradigms.  One says women must allow men to make the decisions, because...well, to be honest, I have a hard time getting a straight answer on the "because." 

However, the other is more nefarious.  It tells us that we should reclaim our power when it comes to dating.  It tells us men appreciate confident women who make the first move, that we can be sexy if we do that.  It tells us that in addition to being fiscally independent, we should make a big deal out of this by paying our way.  It, in sum, tells us that since men are so mind-bogglingly incompetent/underconfident/selfish/insensitive/ what-have-you, we should just take over dating from their sad chocolate-stained little-boy hands, like we're in the process of taking over money, the arts, higher education, ethics, and general personal development.

And all this sounds really convenient.  Except now what do the men have to do except shrug off responsibility in yet another sphere?

This is where I probably start alienating the readers.  And I don't want to do that, because I am extremely sympathetic to this urge.  I've seen enough male incompetence in the social scene (lord, come up to my ROOM, we can TALK about male incompetence) to be extremely tempted to just say "screw it" and orchestrate a romance -- ensnare a victim.  But here's the crux: I can't do it.  While I'm busy showing boys how to fix their essays and arguing theology with them and writing better fiction than  them and dressing far snazzier than them, I don't also have time to effect a seduction.  It makes me feel all tight and sick and miserable inside when I try.  I love admiring boys, but when I add "convince one to ask me out and make him think it was all his idea" to my list of "things I do with men," (minds out of the gutter) it melts my day.  It turns me into an insecure and shallow person of about age 12, analyzing every twitch of the face instead of composing my epic poem about the Missoula Floods.  In sum, when I try to take over from boys in the dating sphere, I just end up resubjugating myself.

(Is 'resubjugating' a word?  It should be.  So too should 'scagwad,' as in, 'Eat plaster, you scagwads!'  I hope one of these catches on.)

Speaking of scagwads -- has anyone thought that maybe, what with all the vital societal work that women do silently, efficiently, as easily as breathing, for millenia, maybe it's not entirely too much to expect a young man, even a confused and immature young man (because is there really any other kind?) to put on real clothes, risk vulnerability and rejection, approach a nice young lady, and offer to buy her coffee?  Is it SO much to ask that boys do their fair share and engage in some courtship rituals?  I don't think so.  And I've realized that I don't want to be in a relationship dependant on my own clever engineering and mind control.  I want a boy so devastated by my grasp of literary theory (or perhaps simply my liquid eyes and slammin' bod) that he is willing and eager to make a bit of effort so he might, quote, "get with this."

So as part of my personal women's lib, I have decided to engage in a social experiment.  For one year, I shall confine my boyhunting to the general 3-step program outlined above.  And in terms of initiating encounters, I shall restrain myself to that.  Want to talk after class?  Walk fast and catch up, cause I ain't lingering.  Want to go somewhere, drink something?  Great, you're paying/driving/deciding what and where.  I refuse to keep mooning about.  I am too damn busy to chase you.  I am ready to be wooed.  My motives here are purely selfish and mostly worldly, so I don't want this to read like some fluffy soft prairie-skirt Christian pseudo-chivalry code. I'd just like some class, and for some reason I don't think I'm particularly out of touch on this issue.

Savvy?

And if, after one year, this has failed to get me a decent date with a guy I actually don't hate/feel super-awkward around, then, come next September, I will get schmammered and slizzared at the Honors Program retreat and make it to first base with the first freshman male who's taller than me.

As a parting shot, I offer TLC and their thoughts on the male-female dynamic and power differential.  Take it away, ladies.

Good night, good luck, and everyone remember to use the word scagwad in conversation.