February 8, 2011

The Worst Month of the Year

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February is the absolute worst. It is cold and slushy and short. I see you, February, trying to be all different with your weird number of days. You can’t fool me. You are still the least cool month of the year. After all, how many months have 28 days? ALL OF THEM. You are not a unique and special snowflake.

My little brother’s birthday is also in February. This, in and of itself, is tragic. Because he is a brat and I hate him. Just kidding, Ari (not really kidding, Ari). Putting aside the fact that his birthday totally stole the spotlight from my way more important and momentous half-birthday (we are exactly five years, six months, and one day apart), this year the lil’ stupidface is turning sixteen. This is unacceptable. Little siblings should not be allowed to turn into viable real person-sized adults. I sat idly by and let him get taller than me, but this I simply cannot permit. No more aging, Ari. I hereby big sister decree it. Yeah, I just used decree as a verb. English is a living and ever-evolving language.  So, like, suck it or whatever. Also, the Oxford English Dictionary says decree as verb is totally correct usage. Bam.

But February does have Valentine’s Day. And who doesn’t love Valentine’s Day? Oh wait, that’s right. I forgot. Me.

I mean, I don’t hate Valentine’s Day, like in a sad, alone, bitter person way. I just think it’s kind of dumb. It’s like a prescribed date night. Isn’t that boring? Everyone in the whole wide world is doing the exact same thing. And flowers are kind of silly and pointless, right? Candy, though. That’s a different story. Candy is my jam. Chocolate candy, fruity candy, gross chalky conversation heart candy. All candy, all the time. That, imaginary suitors, is the way to my heart. Candy.

And, you know, I am a sad, alone, bitter person. I have accepted this and moved on. I am going to die alone and be eaten by my cats, of which I will have many, and they will be named Emily Dickinson and Sylvia Plath and Virginia Woolf and Bronte one and two and maybe Dorothy Parker too (as in “as well,” not “Dorothy Parker too.”)

I just wish my mother and elderly relatives would grasp this concept. Questions about my post-graduate plans used to be my number one pet peeve. But I gotta tell you, not to get too Bridget Jones with it or anything, but questions about my nonexistent dating life are slowly climbing the list. Last semester, I was failing Calculus (because I decided that taking Calculus would be a good idea for some reason? I have no idea) and I was going to hire a tutor, and my grandma was all “make sure he’s cute!” Which is totally sound and helpful advice, because being really bad at something is super attractive and also learning math is not the prerogative of a tutoring-type situation. Not at all. Dating weird math boys is (I am sorry, math people, but I will never understand you).

I don’t have a boyfriend, mom and grandmas and aunts. It’s baffling, I know. Like I said last year, in this very same column, I would date the shit out of me. I have little boy hair, stupid tattoos, and I know the date Action Comics #1 was published off the top of my head. And I don’t even like Superman that much.  I am a veritable catch.

My roommate and I just devised a test for dating compatibility. I’m a little bit (a lot of bit) shallow, a la John Cusack in High Fidelity, pre-peg knocking down of. Shallow like Jack Black in that movie. To avoid copyright issues, though, our test is more of a top three thing instead of a top five. So before you ask me on a date, because I know you really want to, I’m gonna have to ask that you provide the following pieces of information: your favorite TV show, the last book you read and your top three favorite bands. With bands being the most important, and books being the least. Obviously. The optimal answer, here, is: “Professional wrestling; books are for nerds; and Slayer, Pantera, and Megadeth.”

Holler at me, fellas, is what I’m saying. I’m free next Monday. Let’s go to a mid-range Italian restaurant. You bring the expensive but impersonal flowers, and I’ll wear something cheap and satin-y. We’ll talk about the weather, or maybe a local sporting event. It’ll be awesome.

Elana Dahlager is a senior in the College of Arts and Sciences. She may be reached at edahlager@cornellsun.com. Nutshell Library appears alternate Wednesdays this semester.

Original Author: Elana Dahlager