Op-Ed
The Other Side
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Don't Miss Out
April 26, 2007 - 12:00amPeople say there are two sides to every story — especially when it comes to male/female relations. I tend to think the girl’s side is usually closer to the truth. But then again, that’s why I’m a dating critic. Relating to the two sides theory, there’s a special law in broadcast journalism called the Equal Time Rule. The rule states that someone who gets attacked or critiqued on air must be granted equal air time to defend his or her position. In the name of fair and balanced journalism, I figured the same rule should probably apply to my dating columns. You’ve heard my side of the dates; I suppose it’s only just for you to hear from the guys too. Since this is my last column to ever appear in The Sun (tear), I’m opening the floor to some of the men whom I’ve publicly evaluated this semester.
The Lawyer
The truth is I looked at her boobs from the moment I met her. I didn’t intend to, but you wouldn’t believe the shirt she was wearing — it hardly covered her boobs. Right after she invited me to dinner, I told her I had a girlfriend, but she shushed me: put a finger to my lips, wrinkled her nose. So I let it go. She finished nearly a full bottle of wine. I had half a glass, explaining I was in Ithaca for work. By her fourth glass of wine, she seemed drunk, and I told her so. “You seem drunk,” I said. She ordered two beers: one for me, one for her. She drank them both. The waiter gave me a strange look, and I felt uncomfortable, and told her so. “I feel uncomfortable,” I said.
Then she started crying. I tried to steer the conversation back to the subject of the interview, but she was pretty far gone by this point. She bolted out of her chair, crying, and went to the bathroom. I took a sip of my wine, and shared a few words with the waiter. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know either,” I said.
She begged me to accompany her to a bagel store after dinner that she swore sold drinks, and then promised me a night of dancing and Erotic Photo Hunt at a “real Cornell bar.” I declined and told her I had to get some sleep because I had an early morning. She made fun of me for being old. All in all, I would give this date a nine. But I’ve been very busy lately.
The Mexican Gentleman (TMG)
The Date Reviewer’s (TDR) Spanish was almost as good as my own. It’s always good to hear two people speaking Spanish on a date — it makes the couple sound “worldly and sophisti-ma-cated.” TDR gets bonus points for putting up with my extreme “chivalry,” which some people, I’ve found, aren’t able to really handle. I mean, I’m not going to take my coat off so she can walk over a puddle (it’s a nice coat!), but the pulling out of the chair is something “people” aren’t used to, and I understand it. She also took my “proposing” on a first date very well. Usually, girls “go to the bathroom” and then, I guess, forget they “left the stove on” or something. A graceful and lovely lady, TDR is definitely a “gringa” I’d take out again.
The Nice Guy (TNG)
In response to the mediocre review I received, let me borrow a phrase from Michael Scott: “That’s what she said.” Since I’ve been characterized with the stigma of being The Nice Guy (TNG), I thought it would only be appropriate to give our “dating expert” a name of her own: The Heart Breaker (THB). Melissa Erin Kurzweil and I double dated with our friends at the gorgeous establishment known as Manos Diner to eat some eggs. Instead of the standard setting of a dinner date, I was left with a meager breakfast, and then was written up as being “too nice.” I guess my sarcastic humor just didn’t cut it for her. Missy took advantage of me for her journalistic endeavors and I have had a hard time recovering. She toyed with my emotions and my social life has been in shambles ever since that fateful day her article appeared in this newspaper. I fell in love with Missy the Date Reviewer, and she broke my heart.
The Frat Boy (TFB)
Here’s the truth about our “fratastic” evening: I changed our dinner location 30 minutes before we left, showed up wearing a cap to cover my previous night’s mistake and bought the cheapest, biggest bottle of wine at the store. It took almost an hour (in the freezing cold) to get a cab from the Collegetown restaurant back to the fraternity where the real party was well underway. Unlike most girls from the horizontally stretched island from which she hails, Missy didn’t complain that the food was horrendous, the wine was awful, I looked like an idiot and it was really, really cold outside. When the food was bad, she drank the wine. When the wine was bad, she drank more of it. When the cabs weren’t coming, she stuck out her thumb. And when she thought I was drinking too much, she took the bottle and me to the dance floor. Woefully underfed, slightly over drank and halfway to hypothermia, Missy Kurzweil was, and is, a champion.
So there you have it, folks: the other side. Believe whichever party you will.
The only appropriate way to close this column — and with that, four full years of writing for The Sun — is with some necessary thank-yous and farewells. First, thanks to all the fine young men who subjected their pride to a date-review. You were all brave and wonderful. Thanks to my housemates and friends who put up with my whining about deadlines and who helped me brainstorm ideas (“Don’t Miss Out” — that was all you Beber). Naomi Skolnik, you’ve been begging for a shout-out for three years. There it is! I love you. Carlos, Olivia and the entire editorial board — thanks for challenging me, and for being phenomenal editors.
Someone once told me to “do what you love, and love what you do.” (It may or may not have been a fortune cookie.) I was lucky to have achieved that with this column. Hope you’ve enjoyed reading it. Peace out, Cornell.
Missy Kurzweil is a senior in the College of Agriculture and Life Sciences. She can be contacted at mek37@cornell.edu. Don’t Miss Out appeared alternate Thursdays.