Wanted: Depressed, cynical male seeks socially awkward, neurotic female for companionship and fun times; must enjoy sulking in the corner at parties, and pointing out others’ insecurities to mask her own; short temper a plus.
Ladies, if this sounds like a match made in heaven, drop me a line. We can enjoy a nice candlelit dinner, followed by a movie of your choice. I’ll even top it off with an awkward hug at the door. We’ll keep this up for a few weeks, before deciding it would be better if we were just friends.
Some time later, I’ll see you at a party, making out with some guy who still wears his high school varsity jacket and brags about his 1985 Chevy Camaro in between gulps of Pabst Blue Ribbon. For my part, I’ll make a brief scene before being asked to leave. “That’s alright,” I’ll say, as I escort myself to the door. “Hawaiian Luau is a stupid idea for a theme party anyway.”
Ah love, that crazy emotion. It sucks, doesn’t it? Love and college don’t seem to mix, though they share some similar features (both are commitments, and both can be done haphazardly). But maybe I’m selling myself a little short on this love business. I mean, love is a beautiful thing, and when two people are in love, it’s an experience to be cherished forever.
But let’s be real. Love is hard. Love can make you think you’re crazy. Have you ever sat cross-legged on the kitchen floor, reading and re-reading the warning labels on the stuff under the sink? That’s called love. And it hurts. No act is more masochistic than falling in love with another person.
So what’s the alternative to all this unnecessary pain? It’s called bachelordom. It’s like window shopping for a soul mate. This concept is not restricted to men. A bachelorette, for example, has the same feelings of self-consciousness and inadequacy as her male counterpart. And they’re both after one thing: the catch.
A true bachelor has systematically reduced the complex web of human emotions into a few finely honed commands, which he derives from the following formula:
Where B=a bachelor’s chances of getting lucky on a given night, Y=the catch’s attractiveness on a sliding scale from one to ten, A=the amount of alcohol consumed on said night divided by body weight and W=number of weeks bachelor has gone since last getting some: B=(Y x A)^W (Y times A to the power of W)
If B is less than the penalty of a sexual harassment lawsuit, the bachelor moves in. If not, he waits to fight another day. (Consult your state’s laws for dealing with sex crimes and adjust the formula accordingly.)
And yet there’s no sorrier fate than that of the reluctant bachelor, drawn into the game by circumstance rather than design. For every bachelor that lives for Friday nights, there’s another who just wants somebody to love. I’ve got the kindhearted woman blues, as the legendary musician and reluctant bachelor Robert Johnson once said. But if there’s one thing I know about love, it’s that it doesn’t work unless it’s mutual. It’s a lesson more easily learned than applied.
Slowly but surely as the weather improves, students are beginning to flock to the lawns in search of the sun. It’s a prime time for romance. For the bachelors and bachelorettes, however, not much is different. But there’s always hope. Next time you’re walking down the street and you see a couple, smiling, hands interlocked, repress the urge to vomit and/or cry. Instead, smile back, hold your head up high, and keep on fighting the good fight. True love may be just around the corner.
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