It can all be summed up succinctly in a grammatically incorrect text message eliciting relations: “My place? 8p.m. Ur ass is foiiiiiiine.”It’s the familiar hook-up in its smuttiest form, stylized with technology into a booty call. In the collegiate bubble in which we reside, however, the hook-up translation is often slobbering, well-intended, tipsy tonsil hockey, tantamount to a grand hello – while under the influence.The idea of a hook-up was something I never quite comprehended. I dwell in the dichotomy of black versus white. I understand the color wheel, the violet-reds and yellow-oranges that exist between the utter absence or presence of light, but my life is, to the best of my ability, an unambiguous operation. I prefer definitive answers to abhorred utterances of “Mayyyyyybe,” which seemingly formed the entire vocabulary of last quarter’s love interest.When it comes to the sticky sweet goodness of romance, though, the cataloguing in taxonomic groups just isn’t sufficient.That, it seems, is the problem with Northwestern’s non-academic romance department – there is no in-between, no mucky gray mundanity between the head first of hook-ups and the eternity of lock-ups. I’ve discovered, as of late, that I have trouble in the romantic limbo which is the Northwestern dating scene – and I’m certainly not alone.It hit me last week, as I was scrolling College ACB, the heir to the online collegiate gossip throne left vacant by the demise of JuicyCampus. The subject line read “Dating Scene,” and the original poster posed, “What do you think of the dating scene here..?” The first response, the simplicity of “What dating scene?,” seemed to sum up the subsequent ten posts.As a second quarter freshman, maneuvering the overtly-coital atmosphere of the lascivious collegiate dating world is tricky. I’m diving head first – pun entirely unintended – into the romantic dynamic at Northwestern, and the resulting social climate is tumultuous. Winter Quarter, steeped in rumor and expectation, facilitates the hook-up, the no-strings-attached kissy-kissy.It’s difficult to attach myself to the idea of meaningless kisses, as I was raised on the ideals of Disney princesses and happily-ever-afters. Jasmine would have never exchanged saliva with Aladdin if he’d kept their exchange to a simple magic carpet ride. Hell, even skanky Meg forced Hercules to suffer a little; he did, after all, offer up his soul in exchange for hers. Why, then, is it acceptable to exist in this uncompromising lackadaisical world of literal free love?My disenchantment with romance began in a tizzy of perfume and liquored air on a chilly winter night. There were black Xs scrubbed from cold hands, and sweat flooded the dance floor, mobilized by the thumping beat of what I will generalize as every dirty-ass grind track from Britney’s Circus. Bodies pushed closer than prepubescent males at a high school homecoming, and the commotion of hips colliding with hands clouded otherwise clear minds.It started, as all antiquated romances do, with a dance. The aura of hormones pervaded the air, and, as pelvic bones crashed with the pounding of the dance groove, good pilgrims breached familiar territory of Shakespearean proportions. Eyes clenched tightly as arms wrapped around waists, and, in the moment, sly smiles met shy eyes.Conversation superseded dancing, intensity replaced by the humility of eye contact. Common ground dialogue of baseball and music allowed comfort in a potentially awkward situation; arms outstretched wrapped delicately around cold shoulders, nothing more, nothing less. Tired eyes concealed intimations of past indiscretions, but the quiet whisper of voices divulged a tenderness unseen in the banality of “the hook-up.” The sentiments were evident in the casual brushing of hands, the subtle grins and the faint beaming of complete and utter contentment.The night wore on, and downcast eyes chanced meetings with good graces. Laughter permeated the mere inches of air separating one party from another, replacing the deafening rhythm of the dance floor. Hands gingerly sought mates, venturing into territory indisputably tiptoeing on the edge of commitment, and the graze of lips across forehead met bashful utterances and crimson cheeks. The night air dried the remnants of sweat and sin, and the dance of light conversation, peppered with the laughter of shared jokes, was the last of the night.I ventured oh-so-innocently into the former territory in the dating dichotomy (see: hook-ups), but I longed instead for that nonexistent middle ground. The idea of a committed relationship terrifies even the most hopeless of romantics, myself included, and I crave the ambiguous gray of involved bachelorette-dom. I’m a single lady, and, if you like it, dear God, please don’t put a ring on it; use your words, and maybe we can explore that happy medium. The campus romance climate encourages us to eschew the idea of moderation; we’re beings of utter intensity, and this fervor for the extreme extends into our romantic lives. Even I’m avoiding discussing that gray. It’s an unflattering shade of life.I’m done sending text messages and skirting the issue, but I’m not ready for the titular classifications just yet. For once, I’m pleading for that gray matter, the limbo in which I can feel confident and comfortable and sexy without transforming into someone’s ball and chain. And I doubt I’m alone in my lamentations of romantic foibles on campus.I suppose it’s unfair to say I dove into the romance department here at NU. I, if we’re being candid, stumbled. And I’m falling.