She had always felt different from her brother. It wasn’t because she was adopted — they had been her family for as long as she could remember — but she was just different. One day, when she received an invitation to visit the new toy factory, she and her brother found out how unusual she really was.
The owners of the toy factory acted like they knew her. When they revealed themselves to be white-bodied aliens wearing people suits, she tried in vain to escape. Finally she came to realize, to remember what she had always known somewhere inside her. She, too, was a white-bodied alien. They had returned for her.
I don’t think I’m the only one who relates the entirety of my personal experiences to lessons learned on SNICK. As a student body, we might forget the molecular structure of sodium, but we sure as hell can recite the entire first verse of The Fresh Prince theme song. We might not understand what’s going on in Darfur, but we all know that if Sam’s entrance music were changed to bam-chicka-wah-wah, his relationship with Clarissa would have explained a lot more.
Today’s scripture came from the Book of Are You Afraid of the Dark?
You see, they’ve been following me my entire life. From third grade — when my cross-eyed art teacher tearfully confided in me about her husband’s wandering eye and her own recent weight gain — to this weekend, when a stranger resembling a white Pharrell lifted up one side of his t-shirt to reveal a solitary, chestnut-brown nipple. “Dark as night,” he said proudly. “Dark as night.” The truth is, total freaks hunt me like I was made of Lindt truffles and cocaine, and when they catch me, they open a can of crazy on my ass.
It’s happened so often that I can now tell, with 87 percent accuracy, whether they will solicit me for some serious freak-on-geek bonding:
It was Sunday, and I was just starting my usual morning after T-ride of Glory (shame is for those who aren’t total Gs). I spotted him immediately: fanny pack, pink running shorts and pleather Planet Hollywood mini-backpack,; he was well on his way to unintentional dreadlocks and had the body type reserved for 70-year old men who can run 14 miles in the time it takes them to down a bowl of Fiber-One: stringy muscle with mashed potato skin/flab skirting their midsections. He was definitely going to talk to me.
We made eye contact. He smiled. I froze as I heard the familiar crack of a freshly opened 12-ounce can of loco.
“I just survived cancer.”
HOW DO YOU WALK AWAY FROM THAT?
“Yesterday I biked a marathon. But my medication was inhibiting my sex drive, so I got a prescription of Viagra. You know what that is? But there’s this redheaded nurse — about your age. And well, I wouldn’t need the Viagra … if you know what I mean. But heck, I took the prescription because I figure sometimes you need that little extra boost. This is my stop! You’re a sweet girl.”
In under a minute, my face had expressed apprehension, amazement, horror, confusion, understanding (I know what Viagra does, please God, don’t let him go into detail about the functionality of his boomstick), and finally a polite farewell. I felt like I was in a musical.
But the other 13 percent of the time, the crazy is incognito.
Four years had passed since my first double date, and I had made a checklist of lessons learned from the first: 1) if he asks you out while perching on a tree branch in your front yard at midnight, it doesn’t matter that he’s in college; he’s a tree-climber. 2) If the friend he brings looks, breathes and lacks understanding of personal space like that deviated septum kid from Hey Arnold, the friend you bring will express her disappointment by preventing everyone, especially you, from getting any that night. And 3) If all else fails, SOS your mom and climb out the window of his restaurant of choice: the Old Country Buffet.
This time was different. A tall, 25-year-old event coordinator in Boston, Glenn was employed, aesthetically unoffensive and had no evident markings of tree-scaling injuries. I was new and town, so I recruited the only female Cornell alum I could find, and took the risk.
I could not make this up; Glenn’s unique brand of dating began with an appetizer of discussing his future trophy husband status when discovering my law school plans. I restrained myself from reminding him that “trophy” implies “sexy,” and he marginally cleared the fugly-bar. He followed up with a main course of creepy come-ons, including, but not limited to: “I’m sorry, I have no idea what you just said. I’m checking out your legs right now,” “You’re too sober! You should drink much, much more,” and “I’m French and Italian, so I’m really, really romantic. So, do you work out a lot?” He sprinkled on a little overkill: “I like you so, so much. Do you think, after Cornell, you’d come back to Boston?” And between a few stories of how his wingman had been stabbed a couple times, brought out the ultimate slice of holy shit:
“Did I ever tell you about my first time?”
Let’s just say he didn’t mean riding a bike, and he enhanced his epic tale with explicit details including a Brazilian high schooler, a car, a beach and a remote body of water at midnight. And it ended with a wink. Oh my god. Be mine.
No matter what, they always find me. Having dinner at the alehouse with the new roommates? A sketchy older man will buy our dinners as his 20-year-old girlfriend tells us how we, too, can land older loaded men. And he will keep asking to spend the night in our sorority. Taking a cab? The driver will describe the success of his latest purchase: a sex swing for his old lady. And he will use the term “old lady.” Simply put, if the Ithaca Police had sat me in the middle of Collegetown, the Collegetown Creeper would have found me.
Perhaps it’s my delicate mix of abnormal height, red hair and propensity to lift heavy things, but for some reason, crazies think I’m on their team. It’s like they smell me and think, “This girl can definitely finish this obscure quote from Bedknobs and Broomsticks: ‘Lovely! A toad with ...’”
“’Pink eyes!’” Dammit, got me again.
So maybe, like the white-bodied aliens, they see something in me I don’t always see in myself. You see, Awkward Turtles, at Cornell and beyond, always seem to find each other. If you are passionate about blatant disregard for social standards, you’re going to be found by others with the same compulsion.
So see you guys on Saturday night at my house for root beer floats, skateboarding and naked footraces in my parking lot. I’ll be the one in the helmet.
Shannan Scarselletta is a junior in the College of Arts and Sciences. She can be contacted at sscarselletta@cornellsun.com [1]. Awkward Turtle appears alternate Wednesdays.
Links:
[1] mailto:sscarselletta@cornellsun.com