Ah, spring. Dreary afternoons huddled around a space heater give way to sun-soaked Frisbee excursions, and cumbersome North Face parkas give way to revealing tank tops. The warming weather carries with it an increase in passion, making spring into a sort of mating season.
Throughout my life, I imagined college would be a huge, drunken orgy. Although my expanding beer gut validates the drunken part of my hypothesis, the closest I've had to a night of steamy transgression was the time I ate a bowl of angel-hair pasta while watching Jerry Springer interview sexy-dressing grandmas.
I admit that I'm not a math major. In fact, I've been known to have serious difficulty using my fingers to count the number of minutes remaining in a power lecture. According to the calculations I was able to perform through the thick layer of dust that has developed on my TI-83, there should be somewhere in the neighborhood of 20,000 women on campus, none of whom are willing to talk to me.
With such large numbers, the fact that the entire female portion of the student body seems to be oblivious to my existence must signify some sort of major deficiency on my part. It is not physically possible that all 20,000 were in my English lecture that day I had a boogie the size of a Mack truck and was forced to undertake emergency excavation procedures.
Even if the entire female population of Madison were by some magical coincidence present in the lecture hall that fateful day, it is unlikely that they would have witnessed the inappropriate behavior, especially because I was sure to use the stealthy, under-the-desk nose-picking technique.
Since it is improbable that my nasal indiscretion is at the root of my romantic deficiency, it is quite possible that the self-image I create through this newspaper column every week also contributes to the problem. Apparently, certain people out there consider it a turnoff that I publicly discuss extricating blockages from my nostrils and my \expanding beer gut.""
In order to counteract the negative backlash of my own mockery, let me enforce that I have the tendency to exaggerate my shortcomings for a comic effect. In fact, the picture you see at the top of this column is only a decoy to maintain my anonymity and allow readers to focus on my writing. I actually look like a muscular cross between James Dean and that guy from O-Town.
Although one attempt at portraying myself in a positive light will do little to offset months of self-directed insults, my image does not constitute the whole problem. I feel like our generation's vague norms for romantic interaction also contribute to my lack of intimate involvement.
Gone are the days where formal courtship rituals dictated that men should serenade the object of their affection from below her window. In today's world, it seems that the only option for developing a romantic relationship involves meeting a sweaty girl in a crowded basement and hoping she is drunk enough to obscenely thrust her pelvis at you but sober enough to refrain from vomiting on your sweater.
I'm not suggesting that we regress to courting rituals of the past, but it would be a nicer system than today's questionable drunken pelvic thrust method of developing relationships.
Perhaps more reasonable norms would allow me the chance to meet that special somebody. Who knows, maybe she's reading this paper right now. I hope she doesn't expect me to serenade her. More importantly, I hope she didn't get too disgusted when I admitted to picking my nose.
Mike Bromberg is a sophomore who may be reached at bromsqualms@dailycardinal.com. His column runs every Tuesday in The Daily Cardinal.
