Articles

IT'S MY BIRTHDAY AND I'LL DATE WHO I WANT TO
THE HOYA
SEX ON THE HILLTOP
FEBRUARY 28, 2003

Today marks the 21st anniversary of my birth. And you know what that means??

According to the “Rule of 1/2 Your Age Plus 7” I can (and should) officially be dating 30 year olds.

That’s right — take the male’s age, divide it by two, then add seven. The result is a numeral just the right number of years younger than said gentlemen.

Oh, please. Don’t act like you’ve never heard of this rule — it’s old school!

Based on the premise that females mature faster than males, this equation is like converting people years to dog years. The formula works because, let’s face it, it’s a rare lady that likes her men younger. Frankly, once you’ve tasted a ripened fruit, you never want to go back to a green banana.

College is an interesting time, because the differences between a freshman and a senior can be alternately glaring or subtle. I know quite a few upperclass guys who haven’t matured much since their years on the third floor of New South. And there are more than a few freshman who regularly impress me with wisdom beyond their years.

At the crucial junction between the ages of 20-22, a mere two or three years can make a huge difference. My friend Sarah, arguably a real-life Elle Woods from Legally Blonde, explains the female collegiate options: “men from 23 to about 30ish have functional relationship potential. Anything older than that is most likely a sketchy affair and anything below will result in unpleasant recollections of high school.”

Ah, high school. (Begin unpleasant recollection.) My first love was one year my junior. I admit this the way one might admit to cheating on a final exam — that is, not readily. Maybe it was that I had to drive him around until he finally got his license, or maybe it was that when I came back for weekends my freshman year in college, he still had a curfew. Perhaps it was throughout our three year courtship, his mother scheduled his orthodontic appointments — hell, she probably still does. Whatever it was, it was a turnoff, and when that ended, I vowed never to date a younger guy again. 24, 27, 32 — those are fine. 20? No. Not gonna happen.

Most girls I know feel similarly. One Georgetown grad confirmed the trend, alleging that women he had known or dated were overly obsessed with his "raw number," so to speak. “One particularly eccentric ex- girlfriend admitted she had hesitated to start going out with me because she was eight months older.” As I tell this story to my roommates, they nod with understanding — in her favor.

Our conversations regularly go like that; on any given day, my roommate CD and I check out numerous attractive males. “That one’s cute,” I say, spotting a particularly fine specimen in Darnall cafeteria. “Oh, no,” she’ll reply. “That one’s only a sophomore.” When I point out that the young man in question is actually the same age as she, she seems taken aback, then thinks for a minute. “I guess,” she nods. “but I would never date a guy that young!”

But why? We compiled the “Top Five Reasons Not to Date Younger Guys”:

1)    Beer, not wine
2)    Dorm room, not apartment
3)    Twin bed, not king
4)    Bike, not car
5)    Your little brother will mercilessly harass you

According to my ex-roommate Amber, the reasons to date older guys come down to “mo’ money, mo’ maturity, less mama.”

But what if he has too much money, too much maturity, too little mama? (wait … scratch the last — there’s no such thing as too little mama.)

I would describe myself as a confident dater (perhaps over-confident at times); I feel that I can hold my own with practically anyone, regardless of age. However, recently I was out with a fellow in his early 30s, and all of a sudden I realized that I had absolutely nothing to say. I guarantee you, this happens very rarely. There was just such a gap in our life experiences that it seemed as if any comment I made would be laughable or arbitrary. Him: “I’m going to Europe, the Middle East, and Australia next month for business.” Me: “Umm … I’m going home to Chicago for spring break!” The gulf seemed very wide indeed.

And yet, this man probably would have been out of my league, experience-wise, at the tender age of 26, a vintage year I would consider average among my dates.

So is it experience that makes a difference, or years? What you’ve done, or who you are? Should we really be that hung up on a number?

Well … not according to two upperclassmen I know. To protect the studs' identities, I’ll just call them “Mike” and “David.”

Mike, who started dating an “older woman” his freshman year here at GU, is still together with the now second-year law student. “Age just never seemed like an issue,” he tried to explain to me, ignoring my continued allegations that he must have tricked and/or drugged her.

“No, seriously,” I kept saying, “how did you do it, my man?? How’d you get her!?”

“It really wasn’t that big of a deal,” he concluded serenely and walked away.

Not that big of a deal??

David was slightly more illuminating. Although he admitted that age actually was the reason he and his older girlfriend had broken up, it wasn’t because of social pressures against such an unconventional union. Instead, the break-up rested on the differences in their lifestyles. “She had graduated; she was working a 9-to-5. I was still in college. It just wasn’t going to work out.”

That having been said, he explained that in a relationship, having common ground trumps age. One doesn’t necessarily need to have the same experiences or background to be compatible — but it helps. “More important is your mutual understanding about life: do you two share similar value systems? That’s what’s really fundamental.”

Maybe two people can transcend the year they were born.  Personal growth is not linear — life experiences don’t come evenly as we age, in nice uniform increments. Certain events make more of an impact upon us than others, change us in ways we would never expect, alter our worldview and subsequently, our personalities.

Like anything else, these rules of thumb are there to describe the average situation. When it comes to age and dating, we can guess what might work best, or what might not, but ultimately these are just guesses, nothing more.

And so it may be possible for a 22-year-old to have a crush on say, umm … a freshman, right?

Absolutely!  Because sometimes age ain’t nuthin’ but a number.

Posted by Julia Allison at 08:29 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I WILL ALWAYS LOVE YOU ... OR NOT
THE HOYA
SEX ON THE HILLTOP
FEBRUARY 21, 2003

Sometimes, even for talented sex columnists, it’s hard to accurately present both sides of a controversial issue. But I wasn’t on the high school debate team for nothing (other than the dubious benefits of dating argumentative nerds). So, in the interest of objectivity, this week’s column will be argued Philodemic style …

“Resolved: It’s possible to have an active dating life without getting hurt.”

Let the debate begin!
Affirmative:  Looking for love may be like playing with fire, but it doesn’t mean you have to get burned. Three years ago, demoralized by back-to-back relationship disasters, I said “never again.”  Now I employ specific relationship safety techniques: Move slowly, wait a judicious amount of time for intimacy, stay emotionally detached until trust is established.

Negative:  Oh, come on.  There’s no such thing as “safety” when it comes to love.  It’s not a matter of if you’ll be hurt — it’s a matter of when and how badly. Will you be desolate, bereft or suicidal?  Will you wallow for months or merely weeks? Will you swear off relationships forever or just for the next couple decades? As George Bernard Shaw said, love is “the most violent, most insane, most delusive, and most transient of passions.” Try controlling that with your “safety” mechanisms.

Aff: Humph! I beg to differ with Mr. Shaw.  I’m more of a Corinthians girl: “Love is patient and kind, not jealous or boastful, arrogant or rude … Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things … ”

Neg: Riiight.  Ever wonder why you only hear that at weddings and not, say, in divorce court?

Aff:  “Love lifts us up where we belonnnnnng!”

Neg:  “Love makes us act like we are fools!!”

Aff:  Someone’s a little bitter.

Neg: Bitter?!  As if!

(Song “What Becomes of the Brokenhearted?” begins playing.  Negative looks at Affirmative suspiciously.)

Neg: I’m going to ignore that and continue with the debate. (clears voice)  Truly caring about someone requires becoming vulnerable.  Becoming vulnerable requires the possibility of getting hurt.  Therefore, truly caring about someone means you’ll probably get hurt.

Aff:  But we don’t have to become vulnerable too quickly.  After all, you wouldn’t walk up to a stranger on the street and tell him your deepest fears, desires and secrets.  Why would you treat a date any differently? If anything, you should be more guarded.  This sort of emotional prudence has allowed me to steer clear of the grief I suffered when I was younger.

Neg:  Oh, please.  The only reason you haven’t been hurt deeply is because you haven’t let yourself care deeply.  Like the re-calibrated SATs, your scores may have improved, but all that’s really changed is the scale.  Sure, your dating life has breadth, but it doesn’t have depth.

Real relationships require investment, opening up. We can’t act like panicked D.C. denizens at the first sign of an “orange alert” and refuse to leave our bedrooms, petrified of a future attack that may or may not ever happen.

Aff:  We could.

Neg: (annoyed sigh) Oh, come on. Is anything in life — including relationships — ever really “safe”?  All the duct tape and plastic wrap in the world, real or emotional, will only deceive us with a false sense of security.

Aff:  The girls in the apartment across from ours did their windows.

Neg: Get back to me on how they’re doing after a nuclear attack.

Aff:  I’ll do that.

But my contention stands. Entering into relationships with caution is much healthier, emotionally. Sure, such strategies aren’t foolproof, but I do know that I’ve never felt that sort of desolation again.

Neg:  Fine, you no longer have dramatic, tumultuous, hair raising breakups. But there are other sorts of pain!

(Affirmative starts humming “All By Myself”)

Neg: (sarcastic): You’re so clever. Look, there are worse things than to be alone.

Aff: Like what?

Neg: Like emotional paper cuts. It seems as if they should only sting, but instead they hurt like hell and won’t heal.

Aff: (confused) Example?

Neg:  Well, ironically enough, I tried your “safety strategies” with my last boyfriend, and although the breakup was amiable, I still feel recurrent pangs of distress.  There were no fights, no screaming, no insults — just a polite cell phone conversation.  “I thought a lot about this,” he explained courteously, “and I just don’t think it’s going to work out.”  He wished me well, hung up, and I cried …

Aff:  For like four minutes!  And then you sped off to a friendly dinner with a former flame!

Neg:  Well, I was late!

Aff:  Right.  My point stands.  You were able to shift gears fairly easily — to turn off the ‘hurt’ if you will.

Neg:  Except that it kept coming back!  Unbeknownst to him, my ex’s explanation of “no explanation” opened a Pandora’s box of unanswered questions, mismatched expectations and empty hopes that just kept on going.  We were never dramatic.  We didn’t get caught in a vicious cycle of theatrical fights like some ex-couples.  We never had the explosions of raw emotion that marked my other break-ups.  We were kind, we were considerate, and we were unresolved.

Aff:  Well, you may have sent each other mixed messages, but they were with the best of intentions.  You had a healthy “let’s see what happens” attitude!  You stayed detached.

Neg:  Yes, but that only made our relationship more complicated.  We thought we were “going with the flow.”  But our permanently ambiguous state rendered me unable to use good judgment, and ultimately, it ruined our friendship.

Aff:  So he ended it badly.  But you weren’t entirely hung up on him — you’ve dated a lot since then; you’ve had a great time.

Neg: (unsure)  I don’t know … it just seems that no relationship, no matter how civil, is devoid of pain.  He didn’t want to hurt me, and I certainly didn’t want to be hurt.  But he did and I was.

Aff:  Of course separating from a person you care about will never be pleasant.  But there are ways to mitigate that pain.  You could take my friend Sasha’s advice: “Just walk away and forget about him.”

Neg: (scoffing)  Forget??  Has Sasha ever been hurt?

Aff:  Twice — the first two girls he loved.

Neg:  Is he still friends with them?

Aff:  Er, no.  They don’t speak.

Neg:  See!!  Exactly.  I think I win.

Aff:  No, all you’ve proved is that one can get hurt.  One can also learn how to move on from being hurt, and furthermore, how not to get hurt again.  Actually, Sasha’s in love right now …

Neg:  That’s only because he let down his guard!  And so he may be hurt again …

Aff:  But what’s the point of life without risking a little?

Neg: (singing)  “You got to … give a little, take a little, and let your poor heart breakkkk a little.  That’s the story of, that’s the glory of loveeeee.”

Aff:  Okay, you're obviously a tool, but I do love Bette Midler.  C’mon, let’s go watch Moulin Rouge.

Posted by Julia Allison at 12:00 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

WORLDS COLLIDE: THE HOYA HOOKS UP DATING PRO WITH INEXPERIENCED AMATEUR
THE HOYA
SEX ON THE HILLTOP
FEBRUARY 14, 2003

Poor little Tom. He had no idea what he was getting himself into when he agreed to be part of my Valentine’s Day love experiment.

What better way for THE HOYA to celebrate V-Day than by setting up two of its columnists on a first date and having each of them write about it? You know, a he says / she says sort of thing! “Blind Date” without the cameras! “Shipmates” without the boat! “Joe Millionaire” without the Joe!

That could be interesting, I suppose.  Hmm … But what if we add a twist — a la How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days — and have Julia purposely violate every dating convention in the book? Can she actually break her precious rules? Even if she can, will Tom ever recover? Will we find him weeks later, curled up in a ball in his room, in need of therapy and permanently unable to form positive relationships with the opposite gender?

I haven’t read his column yet — the answer may very well be “yes.”

Tommy-Wommy? Are you okay pookums?

Um … yeah. So about the date. How shall I put this? It was f—ing hilarious. I think I actually lost weight from all the calories I burned laughing. If there were Oscars for Good Sports in Dating, Tom’s last name would be Hanks. “Bring it on!” he seemed to say. “I can take it!”

All I can say is — “It’s been broughten!”

As a pathological dater, I’ve found it useful to stick to certain rules of conduct. Like the etiquette my mother instilled in me when I was young, these rules, once ingrained, are practically inviolable. More sacred than habits, more unyielding than conventions — they are a force to be reckoned with (much like my mother herself).

But reckon with them I did, although I wasn’t always successful, and it did require a bit of alcohol. Anyone who knows me will agree I embarrass myself sober and of my own volition on a regular basis. However, even I have limits. This experiment … er, date … tested those limits.

Every law of successful dating went out the window. I was crazy, I was rude, I was everyone’s worst ex-girlfriend. Like a vegetarian eating meat for the first time, I felt so bad about it, I almost got physically ill.

My live exhibition of Dating No-No’s drew its inspiration from Kate Hudson’s masquerade as a psycho-girlfriend in How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, combined with a long list of “oh-god-was-she-a-horrible-date” memories from my shuddering guy friends. And … okay, fine, I also used a few painful-to-remember relationship gaffes from my own past. Very past!!

Manufacturing mistakes is harder than it may sound — but luckily, THE HOYA put their trust in the hands of a pro. The final list of “Things NOT to Do on a Date Which I Will Do to Tom” was a stroke of pure Bad Dating genius, if I do say so myself.

Let’s start at the very beginning.

After agreeing to the date several weeks ago, I left young Tom to fend for himself. I was determined he would get no help from me — we were in the proverbial State of Nature! If all else failed, THE HOYA would be our ultima ratio. Until then, it was dating anarchy.

Bright kid that he is, Tom figured he should make like a boy scout and “be prepared.” Fortunately for him, I made it easy. All he had to do was check out my archives: “Dating with a Lowercase ‘d,’” “Dating Rules for Guys” and “What Tom Should Do on His Date with Me.” Okay, I didn’t actually write the last one. State of Nature, remember??

He’s no Joe Millionaire (i.e., he can read), and read he did. In fact, he probably practiced in front of a mirror, or maybe with a pillow. “Hi Pillow, could I take your coat? My, you look nice this evening!” Whatever he did, it worked. By the time our date rolled around last Monday evening, he was adept, able, proficient — he would not be intimidated by some dating columnist four years his senior! Tom would prevail!!

Riiight. About that …

The first “mistakes” were child’s play — I didn’t return his phone call for three days, I cancelled on the first date, after we rescheduled, I called 10 minutes before he was supposed to pick me up to change the time from 6 to 7 p.m. When he arrived, promptly, of course, I made him wait in the living room for half an hour, taking my sweet time getting ready while my roommates grilled him about his “intentions.”

“This isn’t so bad,” I thought to myself. “I could get used to these sorts of dating don’ts!” As friends, family and previous boyfriends will irritably attest, this kind of flakiness comes naturally to me. I was in my element! I could finally run late without feeling guilty; it was for a column!!

It did get more challenging. I wanted to give him a sappy, horribly corny Valentine out of those conversation hearts — you know, the kind that say “Dream Girl” and “UR a Star.” Normally, it was something I would never do, a pastel nightmare, if you ask me. And as I tried to glue down the damn things, I felt queasy. My roommate had to do it for me, piecing together nauseating phrases into platitudes like “I’m a ‘Dream Girl’ You’re a ‘Cool Dude,’ so ‘Hug Me’ ‘Hug Me’ ‘Let’s Kiss!’” I almost barfed, but it would do the trick.

I gave it to him along with a “Love Primrose,” which, I patiently explained, was “like our new relationship; if you tend to it, it will grow. If you ignore it, it will die!! Don’t let our Love Primrose die, Tom!!” I’m surprised he didn’t start running right then.

Returning to my room for a coat, I let my roommates at him. With a “Sopranos”-esque Jersey accent, one told him that I was a “tough date” and she had a “shovel and a gun” if anything happened to me, while the other barraged him with innocuous questions interspersed with bombs like “So you think you’re going to get a— tonight?? You better think again, son!!” Interrupting Tom’s panicked “No, no!” negations, she fired back inflammatory accusations, “Oh so you don’t like her then?!?! What, she’s not good enough for you?!”

I decided at that point that we’d both had enough of this sober thing, and announced that “before every date, I always take shots!” Tom, although underage (cough, cough), rolled with it, as if of course one takes shots before dates. Well, maybe one does, but certainly not in front of one’s date.

By that point I had already started in on the nicknames. “Tommy-Wommy widdle-bitty! Tom-Pom! Tommmmmy-poo!” If skeptical readers doubt that my young date would fall for such ridiculousness, I would point out that I actually have a friend who, in all seriousness, calls her boyfriend “Pooper.” I cannot for the life of me understand why he allows this practice to continue, although, yes, I realize that for sex guys will tolerate just about anything. As for Tom, I think he sort of liked it. ;)

After Tom acceded to my roommates’ demands that I be home by 9 p.m. (I wasn’t), we finally left. I preemptively demanded a cab, and Tom insisted that he would never be so cheap as to have me walk in heels all the way down to M Street. More points for Tom! He was doing well so far. He hailed one and opened the door for me (as I would expect), clearly on his best behavior. I almost felt like I should be rewarding him with biscuits.

As we arrived at Nathan’s, Tom’s restaurant of choice, I started walking in the opposite direction. “Where are you going?” he asked, confused. “Oh,” I said nonchalantly. “I don’t wish to eat there. I wish to eat at Benihana’s.” With the attitude of a champ, he did a 180 and steered me toward the mall, imploring me not to “write badly about him” because he didn’t make reservations there. Ohhh, Tom-Pom. Would that all my dates were as accommodating!

Once there, I immediately chose the most expensive item on the menu — the $31 lobster (Don’t worry, I think The Hoya is reimbursing him. Right? Right, guys??) and then ordered him to tell the wait staff it was my birthday so I could get a free desert. As for conversation, I had a specific plan — I was to ask him questions about his life, then interrupt him before he could begin, then accuse him of being shy and not talking enough about himself. But this wasn’t a movie; he was a real person, as much as freshman boys are. (Kidding. I’m kidding!!) Honestly, I couldn’t go through with that part, he was just too sweet. And while I’m sure my two shots of Bacardi and a margarita didn’t hurt, I found myself enjoying our conversation immensely. Tom definitely has a great personality, and he sure as hell wasn’t reacting badly to my stunts.

In the meantime, I did manage to achieve other psycho objectives. Every 10 minutes I got up to take calls on my cell phone. I made conversation only about politics, religion, and our exes. I told him in a dreamy voice that his wrists reminded me of a former boyfriend. I informed him I wanted twelve children, and I hoped he felt the same.

I couldn’t believe it: Tom was unfazed. He had kept his cool flawlessly, rolling with more punches in three hours than I’ve ever pulled on any male in my life. I had to go for the jugular. As we ended the meal, I began to pat my stomach and complain I had eaten too much. “Oh my god, I ate soo much. Am I fat??” I asked frantically. “Oh-my-god, you think I’m fat!! I knew it!!”

A mystified Tom tried reassuring me, “no, no I don’t think you’re fat at all!! I …” Interrupting him I yelled back, “You do! I know you do! You didn’t even say I was pretty! Not once! And you were looking at other women!!” By this time the only way to contain my hysterical laughter was to act like I was hysterically crying. Tom was beside himself as I continued my diatribe the entire way back, accusing him of not liking me enough, not complimenting me enough, not putting enough into “our relationship.”

Meanwhile I had my roommates call me on my cell pretending to be various psycho ex-boyfriends. I answered and screamed into the phone while explaining to Tom that I was really a completely sane person, and furthermore, I was totally over these losers. They just liked to call to hear me yell.

I thought it would be appropriate to finish off the date in THE HOYA office, and by this point, I was more than a little tipsy and feeling daring.

As a parting gift, I gave Tom a giant red bear I called “Princess Sophia the Love Bear,” and instructed him to hug and kiss Princess Sophia in front of his friends. As if that weren’t enough, I asked him to open the box of chocolates he had given me, and then eat half of each — so I could see the inside flavor, and decide whether it was “worth the calories.” Without so much as peep of protest, he ate half of every chocolate in the whole damn box, politely informing me of especially tasty ones, and discarding any he thought wouldn’t suit me. Finally, I whimpered, “Tommy-Poo, could you pleaseeeee get me a bottle of water?? I’m soooo thirsty.” Down to Vittles he went. The boy was whipped!!

As for me, I was tired. Dating badly is a strenuous endeavor! Oh, well. I suppose it’s all in a day’s work for a sex columnist, er, investigative reporter.

Before I sign off, one quick word of advice for the ladies of Georgetown: If you see Mr. Wigg around campus, give him your number. This one’s a keeper.

Although I did notice he left the “Love Primrose” in the newsroom by itself, in the dark, un-watered and un-cared for ... the little thing is pretty much a goner. Oh, Tom, how could you let the tender buds of our new love die?!

Posted by Julia Allison at 08:12 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

WORLDS COLLIDE: THE HOYA HOOKS UP DATING PRO WITH INEXPERIENCED AMATUER
THE HOYA
FEBRUARY 14, 2003
THOMAS WIGG

Did you ever find yourself in a completely ridiculous/embarrassing/random situation and just ask how the hell did I get myself into this? Well I did on Monday night. Let me start from the beginning. Better yet, let me start with a few definitions that will better help you understand this column.

Thomas Wigg (me): nerdy 18-year-old freshman news writer for THE HOYA who has not had a date since the Clinton Administration and who has an extremely limited amount of experience with the opposite sex.
Julia Allison: very good-looking 21-year-old sex columnist for THE HOYA who is used to dating medical students on a daily basis and writing about the logistics of booty calls.

Worst idea ever: having these two people go out on a date and write about it in the Valentine’s Day issue of THE HOYA, on the front page no less. Unfortunately, however, I was about the only person who thought this was the worst idea ever. The rest of the staff thought it was the most hilarious idea they had ever heard. So with that, combined with Julia’s immense enthusiasm and idolatry for the Yale sex columnist who wrote about a date with a fellow staffer, I had an exceedingly unlikely and equally hot date (not to objectify, but she seriously is smokin’ in case you’ve never seen her).

Phase 1: Popping the Question
It was in the office two weeks ago when the crazy fellow staffers had this idea, and in an aberrant burst of confidence and courage on my part (coupled with an unbearable amount of peer pressure that none of the techniques I learned in D.A.R.E. class could defend against), I asked the beautiful “sexpert” for her cell phone number — and she actually gave it to me.
I would like to say that I was cool as a cucumber in the following days, but instead I did some studying. Specifically, I read Julia’s column about the rules of dating in order to get some pointers. Low and behold, I found a rule about not asking girls out on a date for the weekend after Wednesday. Thus, trying to maintain a nonchalant image, I called at the last possible time — Tuesday night. It was supposed to be a big moment where I would ask her if I could take her out to dinner, but like in every crucial cell phone situation, I got the voice mail and proceeded to leave a very polite message proposing a date for Sunday evening.

Phase 2: Overcoming Adversity (and a little age discrimination)
I was worried when I didn’t get a call back on Wednesday. My cell phone was on full volume and vibrate mode during class, but she didn’t call. I actually did have one false alarm that turned out to be my mother asking me how to turn on the printer back at home, but I digress. I really wanted to give her another call but I didn’t want to come off as too anxious. I was informed by a secret source that she had no idea I was a freshman and was having second thoughts about the entire thing — and wouldn’t you know, there was still no call by Thursday afternoon. I went to THE HOYA office on Thursday night to work on Friday’s issue and to my surprise and subsequent nervousness, Julia was there. I decided to confront her about the whole thing. She made a couple dumb excuses for not calling me back but in the end agreed to go out and said she was excited.

Phase 3: Word on the Street
Following that encounter, I was feeling disenchanted and unenthusiastic (I mean I was doing this for the paper and it seemed like she was doing me a favor or something). But according to the female staffers who are always a wealth of gossip, she was sincerely excited about the ordeal and even buying gifts for me. Needless to say, a feeling of uneasy excitement swept through my body.

Phase 4: Gearing up
By Saturday the date was only one day away and I needed to get ready — I mean this girl was a professional dater and I was a typical, freshman professional masturbator (sorry I don’t mean to gross out the readers it just rhymes really well). I decided to seek some advice from the female staffers. As you have probably already assumed, the newspaper provides my only interaction with the opposite sex (i.e. I am a pathetic nerd). Roxanne Tingir, our lovely senior news editor, told me that no Georgetown girl could resist a guy in a blue Polo shirt, and being from North Jersey like everyone else here, I happened to have a few of those in my closet. I was also told that I should get her some gifts—so on Sunday, before the date, I rushed over to Hallmark in the mall and picked up some fancy chocolates and a teddy bear holding a heart.

Phase 5: Disappointment
So there I was, rushing back to campus with my Hallmark products to take a shower before the 7 p.m. rendezvous. The big night was finally here, or so I thought. It was twenty-six minutes before “game time” when I got a call from Julia. It went something like this: “Hey Tom! It’s me Julia! Listen—I’m still kind of hung-over from last night and I have a paper due tomorrow. Would you mind if we went out tomorrow night instead? Great! Pick me up at six.” My big night was postponed. The next day, the big night was finally here—again, or so I thought, again. At about 5:56 p.m., four minutes before the scheduled date, I got another call. Only this time, she only wanted to postpone it for an hour more because she had “just gotten back from the gym” or something like that. But no biggie, I guess I could wait an hour longer.

Phase 6: The Interrogation
So by 7:05 (again not wanting to seem too anxious I allotted myself the fashionably late five minutes), I went to her Henle apartment to pick her up — and by that I mean walk over to her place. Like most girls (or so I’ve heard at least), Julia wasn’t ready yet. I sat on her couch and played some Falling Numbers on my Motorola V60i. As I approached my high score, I was interrupted by roommate number one. Seemingly uninformed about the situation, she started asking me a series of questions (“How did you and Julia meet?” “Is this the first time you’ve gone out?” “Are you nervous?”) telling me that I could “shoot straight” with her. Roommate number two then proceeded to bombard me with some more informed questions (“Do you like Julia?” “Do you expect to get action?”) and I suspect she was commissioned by Julia herself. I was warned that Julia was a “tough date” and she “gets really excited.” This was about the part where I was feeling ridiculous/embarrassed/random.

Phase 7: Predating
After keeping me waiting for fifteen minutes, Julia finally came into the living room. It was well worth the wait. Julia — with her whore-boots, mini-skirt and cleavage — was enough to turn on Elton John. She then informed me that she always does shots before a date, so there we were doing a couple of Bacardi shots just to “loosen up.” We then exchanged gifts. I got a half-dead plant with the caveat that it was a “symbol of our relationship” so I had to take good care of it. In addition, I received a very sweet homemade Valentine. I then gave her the chocolate and teddy bear that I had picked up the day before. And with that, we were off.

Phase 8: En Route
Only about eight steps out of the fishbowl, Julia ran into some friends. I was introduced to them before the all shared a “Legally Blonde” moment commenting on each others respective “Louis Vitton” and “Coach” purses. The cab ride regressed into exactly what I wanted to avoid – talking about high school (as if I could make myself seem any younger). We did, however, find common ground in our leadership activities and such probably common in any Georgetown student’s high school career.

Phase 9: Eating Out
The cab dropped us off and I had planned to take her to Nathan’s (no – not the hot dog joint but the fancy restaurant at Wisconsin and M). But this independent woman, powerfully asserting herself, didn’t want to eat there. She wanted to go to Benihana’s instead, which was totally fine with me. And after about twenty minutes of waiting and a strange phone call from her ex-boyfriend (go figure), we were seated.

Phase 10: Margaritas and Reese Witherspoon
Now I love Japanese restaurants, but I would have preferred a traditional table where I could have looked down her shirt during dinner when I got bored. The waitress asked for our drink orders and we both ordered margaritas and the underage freshman was served no problem (that would have sucked if I got carded, and sucked even more if I got busted using a fake ID). I think it’s fair to say that halfway through the margarita Julia was drunk. She was quick to notice the uncanny resemblance of another woman at our table to Reese Witherspoon, who actually turned out to be a staffer for John McCain.

Phase 11: Creating Conversation
Julia knew that THE HOYA was paying for our dinner, so she unhesitatingly ordered the most expensive meal on the menu. Even though we didn’t know each other very well, we actually had good conversation throughout dinner. I talked about my siblings, she talked about dating medical students. I talked about my future aspirations, she talked about dating a CIA agent. I talked about my family, she talked about dating a law student. Okay maybe I’m exaggerating but she did seem to have an awful lot of dating experience.

Phase 12: Party like It’s Your Birthday
By her command, I whispered to the waitress that it was Julia’s birthday (it’s actually not for another month). The crew came over, banged a drum, and the table sang happy birthday and clapped for her. We also got some complimentary ice cream. We were eating ice cream out of the same bowl, talking about politics, having some laughs, and for brief moment, I forgot that this woman was totally out of my league and I was having an unreserved great time. The moment quickly subsided when her psycho ex-boyfriend called again.

Phase 13: Back to Her Place
We grabbed a cab back to campus and were arm-and-arm on our way from the Healy Gates to Henle. Julia, still thoroughly drunk, decided that I was ready for my last batch of gifts. I got a nice box of chocolates and a red teddy bear (whom she affectionately named Princess Sophia). We embraced and the date was over.

I wish I could say that I got some on that date. I wish that I could have provided inspiration for all the nerdy freshmen out there too afraid to talk to the hot older women on campus. I wish I could have had a story to tell my friends. And moreover, I wish I could have had a happier ending to my column. But no, I failed to accomplish every date’s goal. But at least for one night, Steve Urkel got to have a serious date with Laura Winslow. Unfortunately, I have no transformation chamber.

Posted by Julia Allison at 12:00 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

DON'T DISS VALENTINE'S DAY
THE HOYA
SEX ON THE HILLTOP
FEBRUARY 7, 2003

Valentine’s Day is next Friday, and so far I’ve received zero invitations for an official date, one let’s-go-out-together-if-no-one-else-asks back up offer — and one present, from my grandmother.

That is unacceptable.
Where are all the guys I’m “Dating with a Lowercase ‘d’” when I really need them??

Glancing at the empty vase on my kitchen table, I panic.  What if no one sends me flowers!?  Thinking quickly, I call an ex-boyfriend, begging him to remember me next week with a Valentine’s gesture of appreciation — for old times sake.

“Um, we dated four years ago,” he reminds me archly.

“So?” I reply, “A sweet little bouquet will prove how happy you are without me!”  Apparently, that seems logical enough for him, as he asks for my address.  I heave an internal sigh of relief.  My vase will not remain empty!!

Personally, I adore Valentine’s Day.  What could possibly be better than 24 hours devoted solely to the colors pink and red, gorgeous long-stemmed roses, unabashed romance, blatant, unmitigated adoration, and lots of kissing?  February 14th is the High Holy Day of Dating — a fabulous flirtation fiesta … a crush courting celebration, a pulchritudinous passion party, a licentious love liaison, a … okay, okay, I’ll stop. I can’t help it, though — it’s my favorite holiday!

Which is probably why no one else I know likes it.

In the past three weeks, I haven’t heard a single positive Valentine’s Day comment.  Despite my adamant cheerleading (“Yay for V-Day! Woo!”), I’ve been met instead with pent-up hostility, latent anger and general romantic resentment.  Between the bitter singles, bitter long distance couples, and bitter just-got-dumped, no one had anything good to say.  One friend of mine didn’t mince words, “That f—ing day sucks.”

Wow.  Tell me how you really feel.

But why?  Why, on a day filled with love, happiness and hopefully lots of sex and/or chocolate, should so many feel so badly?

My friend Molly critiqued the day’s consumerist, forced nature: “It’s a holiday that puts unnecessary pressure on couples and makes single people feel lonely and depressed.  All of a sudden anyone in a relationship has to prove their love through material goods or exciting, manufactured ROMANCE.  Hallmark, Hershey’s and florists benefit, but couples don’t.”

I admit she makes a good point.  Of course, I’m sure Molly’s negativity wasn’t at all precipitated by a recent break-up with her boyfriend of four years.

Another friend of mine prefers to focus on the inherent inequities of the holiday.  “It’s totally gendered!” she rants.  “Men are confined to a rigid construction of ‘male identity’ which dictates that they must do everything while the girl sits back and receives the attention.  I hate it!”  Shockingly enough, this particular friend is doing her thesis in feminist studies at Stanford.  I suggested she spend her Valentine’s Day at the Vagina Monologues.

Men are equally harsh about the holiday.  A group of my single or recently dumped — and clearly bitter — guy friends recently advocated a reformation of the holiday, called, in their own words, “Anti-Vagina Day.”

 “Clearly,” they explained, “Everything that Valentine’s day stands for, ‘Anti-V day’ is against.”

The torrent of bitterness continued as they vented their frustration.  “Anti V-day would be great!” cried one.  “No romantic dinners, no wine, no expensive jewelry!”

Yeah, and no sex!

“I would rather have a beer than a woman any day,” chimed in another.

Well, then I guess it’s good you have a kegerator and not a girlfriend.

For the good sports who do plan to participate, magazines, newspapers and websites are chock-full of the “creative” V-Day advice so ubiquitous this time of year.  With titles like “Cupid’s Looooove Checklist,” the recommendations range from the oh-so-brilliant “ask your date what they like” to the make-me-ralph “write love poems in your journal every day for a month” (consider carefully whether you want someone to have 30 love poems from you after a nasty breakup).

I suppose it’s better than making a photo puzzle of yourself that says “I choose you!”  But I’m sure no one would actually do that … (ahem, Joe Millionaire).

The more gender neutral ideas ranged from the bizarre “be part of a murder mystery” (ah, yes, murder and love make a great combination!), to the surefire bomb “visit a local arcade” (this may be a total turn on … if you’re a 12 year old boy), to the potentially litigious “kidnap your partner” (rrright — and while you’re at it, see if you can actually get arrested!)

And who said that ladies can’t do something for their men? Lovingyou.com suggests gals take their fellows “air combat training” or to “auto racing school.” Nothing like a little pretend war to get the romance flowing. Yow!

For girls who want to guarantee their boyfriends won’t conveniently “forget” Valentine’s Day, they suggest a Martha-Stewart-esque integration of hearts into all meals throughout the week.  Hell, why stop at hearts?  Starting February 1st, serve only red food on heart-shaped plates while wearing pink lingerie, sighing meaningfully at every De Beers diamond commercial and interspersing your conversation with comments like “Andra’s boyfriend Steve got her three presents from Victoria’s Secret.  She’s so lucky to have a guy like that!!” or the more subtle, “There will be no sex if you screw this holiday up.”  He’ll get the hint.

Women’s magazines have a bad habit of writing a couples-focused Valentine’s Day article, then throwing in an ill-advised paragraph for “the singles.”  This month’s Marie Clarie does just that, asking the oh-so-clichéd rhetorical question: “Who needs a man on Valentine’s Day?” and replying to themselves (guess they didn’t get the idea of ‘rhetorical’) with an answer that I only wish was sarcastic: “Send your friends — or yourself — smart, affirming cards … with phrases like ‘Everything you say is fascinating’ and ‘You don’t have a problem’.”   Next to the blurb was a photo — I am not joking — of real cards that said, in pink lettering: “People really like you” and “People want to feel your magic.”

Wait, are you serious?  Send yourself a card that says, “People want to feel your magic”??

Take the advice of Yale’s sex columnist: “Kill yourself.  No, really.  Do it.”

Before you get desperate enough to send yourself pink “I’m Pathetic” cards, just think — you still have seven days to get a date!  They don’t have to be your true love — any fun person will do.  Whether you’re part of a couple, in a long-distance relationship, dating with a lowercase ‘d,’ on a first date, or planning on a V-Day out with the girls (or boys) — appreciate it.

Don’t get caught up in the pressure to attain that elusive “perfect Valentine’s Day.”  It doesn’t exist.  The best evenings — for couples or not — are those in which we have a great time.  Often this is tied directly to how much wine we’ve had.

Okay, fine, it's really about the other person.  You could have the most expensive present, the most ideal romantic evening, and if you don’t enjoy your companion, it will ruin the night.  Any holiday can seem like an over-commercialized “Hallmark” extravaganza — but the answer isn’t to get angry, sad or wear all black and refuse to participate.  The answer is to value it for what it is.

And send a bouquet of red roses my way while you’re at it …

Julia would like readers to know that flowers, candy, jewelry and dinner reservations will be accepted at her apartment from now until February 14th.  She’ll consider serenades on a case by case basis

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