The first boy I ever kissed was a catch. No, seriously. I caught him. Fool tried to escape through the woods in my backyard. Come on, really? If you’re being pursued by Jaws, you wouldn’t pencil dive into the water. Similarly, if you’re being pursued by a nine year-old female version of Survivorman, you should probably avoid the wooded regions. I was an easy 5’6” and my direction changes had yet to be weighed down by puberty-induced lady-mounds. Mark, a whopping 4’9” pile of marshmallow weighing in at a buck ten, didn’t even challenge me.
At the ripe age of nine, I had already been taught the fundamental code of the cavewoman: we Amazons had to be a little more proactive in the capture and detainment of our clutch-sized carry-on boy-toys.
Well, my source for this tidbit of life advice apparently lied — again. Newsflash, mom: I don’t have to coerce/shackle every boy I find appetizing. Oh yeah, and while we’re excavating old lies, my freckles are not kisses from angels. They’re clusters of over-concentrated melanin and they signal my predisposition towards skin cancer. But sure, I could see how you could confuse that with angel kisses.
In fact, over the past couple weeks, I’ve discovered that we daughters of Sparta hold a special place in the hearts, fantasies, and bookmarked porn sites of some pretty classy guys.
“She was 6’4” Shannan. Six foot four!” The eyes of my sketchtastic baseballing housemate lit up like Snoop Dogg after a long day at the studio. “Do you think she was a lefty?”
“I don’t know, man.” Replied his cornfed tractor-man-transformer of a roommate. “Did you see her shoulders? Bigger than mine! And her plate! 50 grams of protein, easy.” I gathered that, among the many other questionable meats available at Appel, my housemates had discovered a Grade A beef-product of a gladiatrix monopolizing the pierogi line. But why so excited? Why so … could it be … turned on?
“Dude, if you could drop seed in that … first round NFL draft pick, D-Line.”
Okay, I guess I shouldn’t have been that shocked. I had encountered this breeder mentality before. Over the two summers I spent bartending at an outdoor concert venue that hosted everyone from Pat Benatar to a Beatles cover band, my sexy red “STAFF” polo and jean mini rendered me the most popular gal at the midlife crisis center. I served everyone from over-the-hill Buddha-bellied bikers to leather-clad AARP magazine subscribers, and each one rewarded my hard work with class filled comments like, “Nice … powerful legs,” and an all-time favorite, “Wanna arm wrestle? No? Well then, wanna mud wrestle?” Well, now that you mention it …
During a Scottish music festival, a kilt-wearing silvery ginger threw me some serious breeder-friendly game.
“You know, red hair is a recessive trait.” Wink. I had no idea what he was putting down, but I saw a 100 percent tip in the near future, so I picked whatever it was up.
“Yeah, so is the XXY pattern.” While grabbing his Guinness, I went ice cold. Oh, my God. He was suggesting we mate to preserve the ginger gene. When I turned around, he was gone. At night, I sometimes wonder what could have been between us.
But those guys were old. Preserving the strength, intelligence, or gingerhood of their gene pool was currently topping their list of priorities. I guess I just didn’t expect this kind of fervent emphasis on genetic preservation from 20-somethings.
And lady-friends, we’re just as guilty of this hunt for alpha-baby-making genes. Sure, the desires of my male roommates might as well be brought to you by Powerbar (“I’m looking out for my son. If you cross athlete with athlete, there’s no way you can get poet.”) But how familiar is this conversation: “I hope I don’t have ugly kids.” And, for my future cellmates out there: “If I have ugly kids, I’m drowning them.” It’s the same conversation all the time. It’s been done more times than Britney, and yet everyone laughs like it’s the first time they’ve heard it. It’s more boring, generic and erroneous than the “My Little is SO HOT” t-shirts (anyone notice: number of hot girls at CU < number of hot little t-shirts?) Let’s come up with something a little more creative: If they’re ugly, tell them they’re adopted. As for the t-shirts: “My Little is less than three pounds above being spandex-appropriate.”
I am no exception to this phenomenon. In fact, I’m on the hunt for a foreign exchange student from any olive-skinned country; Italians? Bon giorno. Latinos? Hola. Scots? No. Absolutely not. I’m not trying to birth a post-roid-binge Carrot Top. Look, Italiano, we’re perfect for each other. You bring the ability to sleep with the nightlight on without getting sunburned, and I’ll bring the green card.
The truth is, Cornell is filled to the brim with power-genes. Sure, not all are aesthetically do-worthy, but, in a breeder’s world, exorbitant talent renders facial misfortune bearable. The heavy concentration of Olympic, Oscar-nominated, Nobel Prize winning genes at Cornell rivals that of Bono’s backyard barbecue. In the post-Cornell apocalypse that is the couple years following graduation, the gene pool becomes heavily diluted with the solvent of copious undesirables. At C.U., you can pretty much pull a piñata style mating move — close your eyes and keep swinging until you score — you’re at least guaranteed an honors student. But the same process in the real world leaves you with two STDs: the clap and a kid straight out of Munchkin Land.
Shannan Scarselletta is a junior in the College of Arts and Sciences. She can be contacted at sscarselletta@cornellsun.com. Awkward Turtle appears alternate Thursdays.