Spring on the North Shore! Skirts are in the air! Pollen is in the air! According to The Daily story on the circus arts class, freshman theatre majors are in the air! Love is in the air.
And holy crap y’all. This newspaper has a sex column. I actually don’t know that anyone reads it, but it led me to the following thought process:
1. I should write about sex!
2. No, dude, your grandma reads this column.
3. That girl in Play who already writes about sex wrote sex tips.
4. I should write relationship tips!
But I am no Carrie Bradshaw — I don’t dress very well (hoodies, remember?) and there is no Mr. Big in my life to zest things up. I have no encouraging relationship or sex tips. So why don’t I write what I do have: my disaster story, why you should ignore all things sexy this spring and save your dignity.
You know when you look back on something and you think, “I am the stupidest person alive?” How I choose to deal with being the stupidest person alive is by exposing my stupidity to the entire campus. And Memaw.
I got dumped in May 2002, went home for the summer and found myself with a new boyfriend. Let’s call him Ned. Ned and I had been friends for years until I needed a rebound. It lasted until I got back on campus and realized, not many weeks later, “Oh, wait. I have a life. We’re done now.”
Now Ned and I are not friends. Why? Before the fortunate breakup, Ned did a few unforgivable things. Do you, men of Northwestern, think it’s a good idea to borrow CDs to copy and return them with your and my initials (and hearts!) drawn on them in Sharpie in your bad guy’s handwriting? Who the hell does that? Anyone who’s ever spoken to me knows that I do not want my “Achtung, Baby” defaced by anybody who isn’t Bono.
Another reason we aren’t friends is his cell phone. Being an Abby and at the top of most people’s cell phone’s phone books, I’m extremely accustomed to accidental phone calls from butts, purses and pockets. Ned, until I IMed him two weeks ago (our first communication in months) to tell him that I really just don’t buy accidental text messages (“HEY. PARTY AFTER GAME. BEER.”), would execute approximately three “accidental” phone calls to me a week. For a year and a half. Someone asked him why he didn’t just take me out of his phone, and he replied that he couldn’t, that his phone was broken. He also apparently couldn’t add to his phone book, either, so not even an Aaron or an empty Aaaa could relieve me.
The worst part about all this is how totally smitten I thought I was with this guy. I mean I have dated some weird-ass schmoes, but I was serious about this guy, and the only reason I can think of is because he was willing to be what the boyfriend before wasn’t. I’ll be the first person to say that I shouldn’t have gotten as deep into that relationship as I did. And so I end this column with advice: Don’t let all this warm weather and skirt wearing and NU sex tips (oxymoron?) make you throw yourself embarrassingly at the first psychopath that comes along — even if you have listed yourself under “random play” on thefacebook.com.
