I just realized that I'm, like, totally un-college.
It struck me as I read the second installment of The Spectrum's brilliantly raunchy sex column: unlike many girls my age, I don't usually rely on plunging necklines, globs of makeup, and sultry "come hither" glances to catch a guy's attention.
Sure, I've done the hookup scene and I've even scuffled through the walk of shame. In the fall of my freshman year, I made a conscious decision to try out the college lifestyle and get shamelessly wild at parties.
I lasted a week.
In those seven days, during which I let my usually impeccable sense of propriety slip away from me, I grew up. I squeezed an entire four years of recklessness into two weekends and then I was done – done with frats, done with being objectified, done with dolling myself up so I could get down.
Bing, bang, boom.
So many girls are convinced that the only way to snag a man is to make sure he catches a glimpse of the thong that's hanging out of their skintight, leopard-print mini.
But it's not about that. For many women, the pursuit of a man seems, tragically, to take precedence over the pursuit of education, a career, and independence. The women of Maxim and Cosmo are caricatures that we cannot and should not be expected to replicate. Any man worth his salt will appreciate class more than cleavage.
I've been called an Angel, a Good Girl, a You Can't Be In College Because You Act Like My Mom. But should my flocculating moments of maturity really make me so much different than others my age?
That night you were cheering the arrival of the Stampede bus to take you to South Campus for an evening of indulgence? I was fresh-faced and still in my lifeguard uniform, sipping Moscato with my closest friends and being invigorated by the conversation rather than the alcohol.
I used to think that I was strange for not spending my days planning my nights. But what I've realized is this: the people who tell you that you're only young once are the same people who can't remember half of what they did, or who they did, in college. At nearly 20 years old, I'm in my first real relationship. When we met, I was covered in dirt from a day-long gardening session, my hair was gathered on the top of my head in a disgusting knot, and I was bundled in my faded UB hoodie. He still managed to find something attractive under all that grime.
Perhaps it's the aftermath of the sexual revolution that has left women with the mistaken concept that they need to flaunt their liberation to appear empowered. Ladies, don't abuse your dignity and lose your self-respect in pursuit of some tail.
Let it happen organically. Talk to that guy in the library who smiles at you despite the seven frown lines you've just developed trying to get through one page of organic chem. Laugh with him when he sees you trip on a sidewalk crack. Accept the offer when the bro you see at Alumni every single day finally works up the nerve to ask if he can spot you.
To the girl who'd rather meet a guy for lunch than have a guy hold her hair back while she's puking in the bushes, I raise a glass. To all the party animals and all the boys who take advantage, and to the good girls and the men who help us back up after we've fallen: I salute you. You make life interesting.
Email: madeleine.burns@ubspectrum.com
