I went through a two-year dry spell in college. For longer than a root canal procedure but less than the time it takes to adequately learn Japanese, collective reality pitched a no-hitter. Not the kind of no-hitter where no batters get on base — the kind where the pitcher takes the mound and realizes the other team forgot there was a game and is still in a hotel in downtown Toledo prank calling each others’ rooms with fake names like “Richard Dick,” “Seymour Lipshits” or “Dick Butkus.” Actually, those are all real people, and Seymour was, I kid you not, my father’s proctologist. Nominative determinism is the word you’re looking for.
Quickly, let me first clarify what I mean by “dry spell.” While variation among working definitions and personal standards exists, all that would have broken the ignominious streak was a middle school makeout. (Middle school here refers to the manner of the interaction, not the age of the participant.) This is not too low a standard, I think, and I’m willing to defend it against those who would require a lack of more carnal deeds to constitute a drought. Between any such hankery-pankery, the world crowned first a new Olympic Champion in the marathon, and then the two-woman bobsled.
Perhaps you’re thinking, “Isn’t going through a dry spell in college like failing kindergarten? Don’t kick the girls, stay on top of personal hygiene, and you’re pretty much golden.” Or, if you are familiar with my tall, lanky, slightly comedic figure, you may well wonder, “Who could resist such a stick-like frame?” A doctor looking for possible Marfans patients couldn’t, maybe.
But, as alluded to in the baseball metaphor, the point isn’t about being resisted or striking out. (In fact, those are signs that you need to cool the jets.) I didn’t realize nor care that the months were passing without incident until it had become unavoidably apparent. Like those truly gaudy drunk driving PSAs, I didn’t know it was happening until it had already happened, and that same happening could be your happening. And, just like “The Happening” (2008), at the end you’ll be confused and wishing it had featured more Zooey Deschanel.
Let’s not forget: college is a unique time for those just out of high school in this respect. Never again will you be surrounded by as many people who share similar interests, are updated on their shots (you hope), and feel the same inexplicable need to fling themselves at the nearest human with a heartbeat, often that dude/girl in your language class whom you haven’t talked to yet, but totally laughed at the joke you made about the “chins” and the “phonebook” in Chinese class.
Drawing from both personal experience and available literature (“Seventeen” magazine, “Cosmopolitan,” AARP), here are some tips for recognizing when your gears are gathering rust, and what to do about it. Don’t fret if you find yourself identifying with the symptoms presented. Kissing is like riding a bike: once your mom shows you the basics you don’t forget how to do it.
Increased frequency of urination. Development of chronic fatigue. Blurry vision and weight loss. An increase in hunger and thirst. Sores and infections taking longer to heal. These are all signs you might have developed Type II diabetes.
Perhaps AARP wasn’t the ideal source material after all. Come to think of it, I don’t really have advice for anyone who hasn’t tasted the passionfruit of the Garden of Eden in several moons. Honestly, you’re probably realizing you have much more time and mental energy on your hands when you’re not worrying about whether or not that borderline racist gal/guy from Chinese class is going to “love you long time.” Signs of a dry spell? How about increased productivity and greater sense of self-satisfaction? Loss of dependency on external validation? Stop doing crunches and start crunching numbers; you’ll find it’s far more enlightening to study gender roles than live them.
Besides, these things tend to take care of themselves. Finding a romantic connection isn’t something to put on the to-do list, somewhere between “sign up for next semester’s classes” and “finish that Nietzche reading” (which actually comes in handy when a cutie in Philosophy gives you a compliment and you deftly reply, “Don’t mensch-en it,” with just enough inflection to make the pun clear).
Use your time productively and with purpose, and soon enough you’ll meet that special someone in a backyard on a Friday night. Still early enough in the night that you have your wits about you, you rattle off some quip about the weird connection between military leaders and food (“Colonel Sanders, Caesar salad. What’s next, Brigadier General Sauerkraut?”), and bam, you’re back in the batting order.
Peter Stebbins is a Humor writer.
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