I’m not sure if you were aware, but I like to spend a lot of time analyzing my severe boy challenges.
To me, guys are like another species: most of them can touch the ceiling when they walk under doorways, they have unusually large shoes and they can make that creepy “muahahahahaha” sound in echoey places with their super-deep vocal chords.
You would think that, at 20, I would have the boy thing down to a science. But ever since I decided that dancing on an inch of puke and Andre while beer pong cups were flying at my head was not my idea of a good Saturday night, I would say that my understanding of their manly rituals has pretty much gone kaput.
So I was casually discussing this severe dysfunction with one of my guy friends. I figured that he could give me some sound advice, being a member of their kind after all.
He told me that, as much as I focus my articles on my total cluelessness, there are plenty of guys out there who are equally confused about women.
WHAT?! Revelation.
So for a change, rather than go into why exactly I suck around the boys, I thought I might do a scandalous thing and discuss just where the boys suck when it comes to girls. (I’m aware that “suck” is an awkward verb to use here … I am also aware that you have a dirty mind.)
The best example I can think of would be the simple act of asking someone out. I’m pretty sure that’s a key step in all relationships — though if you’re not like that, e-mail me so you can show me your magical ways. But for some reason, the thing never turns out quite like I imagine it.
You see, in my head, the ideal ask-out would go something like this:
[Foreign Language Class — I’ve forgotten all my French, the language of romance, so I’m going to go with Chinese here … equally sexy, I think.]
Teacher: Okay, I’m grouping you, Single Girl and Smoking Hot Student. I have no ulterior motives here. I’m just totally convinced you’d make a great couple.
Smoking Hot Student: Ni hao.
Me: Ni hao.
SHS: [In flawless Chinese] I noticed you were having trouble with the dialogue. Did you want to study with me on Friday? Maybe go to dinner first? I could help you with your vocab and maybe you could help me with my accent.
Me: [Sexy hair swish] I understood about 30 percent of that, so yes.
SHS: Okay, it’s a date. [Kisses hand and walks off into the horizon, looking totally suave and, of course, smoking hot.]
Is this too much to ask? Apparently so, because the few times someone has actually even gone so far as to pseudo ask me out, it usually turns out a little something like this.
[Watching some crap movie]
Whatever I Can Get: [Looks at me] Do you like the movie?
Me: Well…
WICG: [Cuts me off and attacks my face]
To me, the whole no-words-just-tongue thing is never the right way to go. Then again, I just spent my last Saturday night watching Japanese Iron Chef, Battle Curry … so I suppose my tastes are not 100-percent reflective of the entire Cornell community.
But as much as a face mauling sucks, there are worse things I can think of. In short, signals.
[Giant Lecture Hall]
Me: Oh my god, did he just make eye contact with me?
Honest Friend: Absolutely not, Cristina. He’s 15 rows away.
Me: Shut up, he just totally did. I can feel it. Oh em gee, he waved! He waved — oh wait, no. He was waving to the girl behind us. Oh, and he just kissed her … s-lut.
I used to think there was secret code behind all those furtive glances. But the older I get, the more I realize that the “furtiveness” is as much a product of my imagination as Smoking Hot Student is.
I mean, sure, it’s highly possible that I’m going to meet my Prince Charming as I wait in line at CTB for my giant latte. But more likely than not, it’ll be because I just spilled my scalding hot drink on him, not because he daringly approached me and professed his love.
Original Author: Cristina Stiller