The University possesses a hookup culture, as any student will readily expound. I cannot count the number of times older friends have advised me to shake away the ridiculous notions of romance bouncing around my head. They tell me students here do not date. They tell me to embrace the opportunity of not being tied down to a single person.
Well, I must admit that I am no stranger to said hookup culture — an embarrassing fact to admit given that my mother always reads my column. I’m sorry, Mom. Quick, shield Daddy’s eyes! Don’t let him read about his little girl being groped by gregarious buffoons and egotistical assholes disguised in bowties, khakis and Sperry Top-Siders.
The truth of the matter is, I’ve spent more than one night allowing myself to be wooed by a gentleman whose face I would not be admiring come morning. To an outsider, it might appear I have become somewhat of a scarlet woman.
Part of me wishes that were the case. Life would certainly be much easier in many ways if I could submerge myself wholly in this hookup culture. However, I was raised on Disney fairytales and reruns of “One Tree Hill,” and I harbor an intrinsic desire for a little more emotional complexity.
None of this is to say that I frown upon the woman who chooses to rotate her nights among our venerable pool of men. I applaud this woman; she’s a far better feminist than I, so far as her determination to shatter traditional gender roles and their relevance to stereotypical relationship ideals. No woman should ever criticize another based on her intimacy preferences. If Miley Cyrus’s reemergence in popular culture can teach us anything, it’s that slut shaming, a mode of judgment that should have met its maker years ago, remains alive and well.
While I may not be the supreme example of unbridled sexual liberation, I do credit myself with an unexpected proficiency in picking up the hookup dialect since I came to to the University 16 months ago. Until recently, I never pined for anything beyond the neon lights and gyrating shadows of the dance floor. But the appeal of all that blaring music and hazy atmosphere has an annoying habit of dissipating upon the entrance of a guy you really feel to be special.
One-night stands are fine and dandy, but at the end of every night, you still turn back into a pumpkin; the glass slippers and magic wear off faster than your eyeliner. One-night romances send sparks down your fingertips and thrills through your gut, but they don’t permanently subdue loneliness.
I have a little crush. Am I even supposed to call it a “crush” anymore, or is there a more adult term I should use? Regardless, the University’s hookup culture prompts an embarrassing feeling of shame in me about — gasp! — actually wanting a guy to stick around for a while.
I’m about as seductive as a pickle. I’m clumsy; I bust my ass at least three times a month while merely walking. I’m loud; I make terrible jokes and proceed to guffaw — and occasionally snort — at my self-perceived wit. And I am not the most physically attractive person on this planet; trust me, I was not born with it — it is most definitely Maybelline.
With all these challenges facing me, how am I to woo a prince? Maybe it would be better if I’d just give up any lingering notions of fairytale romance and exclusively commit to a hookup existence. I have every confidence in my ability to entice a man for a night, but I worry that too long in my company could send the poor fellow running for the hills.
I may get the guy; I may not. I may start my own “Once upon a time,” or I may throw all those storybooks into the ashes. I refuse to wait around, twiddling my thumbs and impatiently tapping my foot for Prince Charming to appear. I refuse to degrade my worth in that way.
Instead, I’ll be a collegiate Cinderella, still sporting those glass slippers, but pairing them with a delightfully too-tight skirt instead of a ball gown. I’ll go out with my girlfriends and tear up the town. I may pass a few hours with a couple of Merry Men, or even Robin Hood himself.
Mr. Charming will either get his butt on his noble steed, or he won’t. Cinderella may never really fit into a hookup culture; but I’ll bet you two glass slippers and one pumpkin carriage that she can adapt pretty well.
Laura’s column runs biweekly Fridays. She can be reached at l.holshouser@cavalierdaily.com.
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