Since Thursday, I have spent approximately 32 hours in Van Pelt. My breaks were for meals, sleeping, and meetings. Literally. As I read through my text books, made flashcards, wrote two papers, and prepared for presentations that should take me through the Monday after Thanksgiving, I acquired two tics: the instinctive looking up expectantly as I catch any tall boy in my peripheral vision, and–the more embarrassing one–impulsively texting boys from home in anticipation of a weekend of gluttony.
It started innocently with the love of my life from middle school. We have, for years, been in limbo with one another; one single, the other seeing someone, then it switches. Not since my bat mitzvah have I slow-danced with someone and really meant it. This text was an investment, on all accounts, since he’s in his first year at Goldman, and I am due to move to New York come June. Of course, being an investment big shot himself means he’ll be home for 20 hours. That led me to the high school friend with benefits.
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It recently dawned on me that in the past year, every hook-up I’ve had has gone one of two ways: I’m into it, or he’s into it.
The “I’m into it” situation is pretty self-explanatory, and I’m sure most of you have been there at least once (if not, I hate you). From our end, it seems to go extremely well, until, for reasons unbeknownst to us, we’re dropped. I’ve been lucky enough to watch these d-bags become temporarily ugly post-break-up: whether weight gain, face bloat, or acne regression, it’s fabulous. Karma’s a bitch, boys.
Out of the blue one day, though, I experienced the “he’s into it” scenario for the first time–and then repeatedly. When he’s into it, it’s so terrible that you peace out ASAP, but your escape is immediately followed by a bombardment of text messages for cuddling, movie watching, or just random attempts to be cute or endearing that flat out fail. Just the thought of the initial interaction brings on a visceral reaction, and you blame tequila, even if you were sober.
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We’ve all seen it happen; it’s tragic, really. You or a friend has scoured the scene and finally found Mr. or Ms. Right. The pair’s burgeoning relationship falls flat on its face as a result of–you guessed it–overzealous or just plain wrong texting.
To try and remedy the love lives of its textually-challenged customers, AT&T brought in a “love expert” to create “Textiquette,” a set of rules to govern those virtual sweet nothings. Watch AT&T’s instructional video, “How to Lose a Guy in 10 Texts” here, and check out UTB’s additional texting rules after the jump.
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If only he read UTB first...
With parents’ weekend fast approaching, I know a lot of people are nervous about meeting their significant other’s folks. I have major sympathy for those of you who are stuck in the awkward position of wanting to avoid this happenstance at all costs, but consider your partner’s position too! Even I have been on the other side of the spectrum–I had a boyfriend once who refused to be introduced to my parents for the entire sixth months we were dating. Ouch. I should mention that, when I did finally force them to get together, nobody came out happy or satisfied. The whole horribly awkward encounter could have been avoided had I only respected my ex’s–and my parent’s–wishes. Please feel free learn from my mistake.
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Last week, Lily Avnet schooled us in football lingo in her new column, Sports for Chicks. Today, she’s back with some more pointers for convincingly faking an interest in sports.
So you find yourself in a scenario with a favorable guy-to-girl ratio and for once you’re surrounded by hotties. Now the pressure is on to show off your knowledge of the current economic crisis or offer your take on the brilliance of the Sarah Palin “cut and run” debate response. But wait. Oh no. Suddenly you’re awash in a sea of yellow cards, flagrant fowls, and three point conversion plays. Yup, you just got cornered into a conversation about (gasp) sports. Now you’re left with two alternatives:
A) Stand there and nod. Pretend you know what they’re talking about (play defense).
B) Awkwardly slip away and save yourself the embarrassment of not being able to participate in this discussion (bench yourself).
Well, if you are unsatisfied with either of these two options, I’d like to offer a Plan C. The media has taught you far more than you realize about sports. Everyone knows Kobe Bryant owns the basketball court while Tiger Woods dominates the verdant pastures of the golf course. By using the logic-based skills that surely got you into to Penn you can absolutely navigate a sports-based conversation, or at least manage to stay afloat.
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Welcome to the first edition of Sports for Chicks, the self-explanatory brainchild of UTB contributor Lily Avnet. Today she gives us the 411 on that most macho of sports, football.
Sports for Chicks: Ignoring the differences between baseball and football since 2008.
Every weekend hundreds of Penn women wonder why their boyfriend/bff/fling from last night has not called them back. Ladies, I have a revolutionary answer, an earth shattering revelation: football. See, every weekend as we anxiously wait for that text, all our gentlemen seem to be “playing hard to get.” While I in no way wish to demean the flirtational capacity of our Penn boys, I’d like to offer a simple solution rather than whining, “he’s just not that into you.” Think positively. Take a deep breath and say, “Today he’s just more into Brett Favre.”
Indeed, every Saturday a multitude of men must watch their favorite colleges and universities duke it out while simultaneously trying to catch a glimpse of their shirtless friend from high school who painted his face and decided to rock a beer hat for the occasion.
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