The end to my schoolgirl silliness

Last fall began, and I was tired. I had seen a spring of academic tedium and a summer of mono, so my swollen neck was just beginning to shed a few pounds, and my willingness to engage in potentially impotent academic pursuits was just starting to seep back into my bloodstream. But I didn't want to overdo it. So I didn't audition for any plays. I didn't fill out that application to be a Daily Pennsylvanian columnist. I didn't recruit for that trip-hop band I kept meaning to start. I stuck to my comfortable four classes and hoped to recuperate. But I overestimated my fatigue. I didn't feel mentally involved with the outside world. So I turned to that trusty commodity that's always supposed to cure you of your ills -- boys. Oh, not the actual things -- just the idea. My friends and I always joked around on the Walk, checking out cute guys and making up stupid nicknames for them, quoting My So-Called Life, and laughing at the frighteningly small degree to which we were only kidding. But, in the absence of another satisfying extra-curricular activity, my checking-out and nicknaming skills went into hyperdrive. There was "Short-with-a-Big-Head Boy," who was short and had a big head. There was "Kitten Boy", who I swear looked just a like a little kitten. There was "Skinny Boy" who was, as Grunge Hour personality Derek Tagliarino commented, "a rather slight fellow." No, the monikers weren't creative, but they stuck. So I noted their comings and goings, their daily quirks. In boring lectures, I would fill in my notebook margins with comments about their questionable wardrobe. In conversation lulls, I would say, "So I saw 'Skinny Boy' today," and my friends would all strike silly school girl poses, and self-ironic, giggling banter would ensue. Well -- self-ironic to a point. We're all strong, independent young people. We don't need a romantic partner to validate our existence. That kind of foolishness is for bitter spinsters and sorority girls. The problem is that we were all raised by the same television, the same fairy tales, the same pop songs. The same insinuations that, somewhere in the monochromatic crowd, we'll see that singular, striking face. All the Ani Difranco albums in the world won't shake that vigilance: "he's out there -- find him." An important distinction: I was not stalking anyone. I never even adjusted my walking routes to pass them on their way to class (Although, I have to admit, I'm pretty sure I could have). There's a big difference between leaving obscene answering-machine messages and merely observing what happens to be in your line of sight (Yes, I was doing the latter, thank you). Ridiculous? Yes. Immature? Yes. Indicative of larger relationship and socialization issues? That's really a whole 'nother column. But most importantly, it was just time-consuming. This semester, I auditioned for that play. I filled out that columnist application. I still have no trip-hop band, but do you know what they're charging for four-track recorders these days? Basically, I've got a full plate. I don't have time for self-ironic boy-watching. Prince Charming can wait. So I adjusted my New Year's resolution. I crossed off "Read Moby Dick" and wrote in "Stop being boy-crazy." Then, the other day, I was reading a book for class, and looked up to see "Skinny Boy" walking past. And he was wearing glasses! He never wore glasses last semester! But you know what I did? I just resumed reading my book. The event went by unnoted. Yes, I've got better things to do with my time. I know what you're thinking. You're saying to yourself, "Does he have any social skills at all? Why didn't this dork just introduce himself in the first place?" Well: 1) Yeah, I've got social skills. One or two. 2) All the guys were smokers! There are really few more disappointing sights than a cute, intriguing boy who spoils his allure with a filthy cancer-stick hanging from his lower lip. So I've fooled you -- this isn't a column about my romantic disabilities -- it's anti-tobacco propaganda. The moral? If you smoke, then a real catch like me will draw the line at school-girl-level obsession. No wink, no "Hey," No "Wanna get coffee after class?" Just a passing comment in the journal of a classy boy with lungs as pure as country air -- beautiful, beautiful country air.

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