Common Missteps

It’s the same conversation with a different excuse. Change up the players — the guy and the girl, maybe two guys or two girls. Switch the setting — the Charles, the dorm room, the T-station, the Yard. The sentiments are the same. The conversation is the same. A divergence of expectations, unavoidable disappointment, regret and resentment.

“How awkward was that?”
“I know. I’m blogging about it.”
“About those two?”
“Not just them. Everyone has that conversation.”

Even I do, despite my best efforts.

“That” conversation is why I found myself at 3:27 a.m. last night slumped up against the dorm room door of my hookup du jour. He was saying everything I didn’t want to hear. I was trying to remember to breathe. But since my sleep-deprived, over-caffeinated self could only concentrate on one thing at a time, I opted for his words over oxygen intake. This was the fourth time I heard the same thing, and it didn’t make any more sense now than it did before.

Yes, the fourth time. Because the first, second, and third time he issued an explanation days prior, our collective faulty judgment led to the ultimate mixed signal. We had sex. Sober. In college, that’s either the best or worst mistake you can make.

For me, the latter is proving true. The position I’m currently in is worse than anything the kama sutra could propose. It’s no secret who I’m sleeping with, and I get the feeling that double standards and general gossip will not be kind to my reputation. What do I get out of this? Nothing other than a few blogworthy experiences — oh and of course, the acquaintance of a guy whose psyche I am now as familiar with as his anatomy.

Not worth it, I say. After all, I never had to fuck Rellim or Nate to obtain gal pal status. So here I get a well-endowed friend out of my trouble. Whatever. Heartbreak is entirely unnecessary in the platonic scheme of things. And similarly, heartbreak shouldn’t require platonism after the fact. Is “let’s be friends” really any better than “please fuck off”? The last thing I need after my feelings have been trampled on is for you to play nice. Buck up, be the asshole you are, and make it easier for me to do my job — that is, hate you.

But back to the point, which is the commonality of the college experience, of love and of learning. At this moment, I’m sitting in the dining hall, watching my premed roommate slave over her organic chemistry book. The conversation I just witnessed a few minutes ago is the same one I had not 24 hours prior. The response paper I have due in the morning (i.e. very soon) is the last thing on my mind. The guy across the room is the first.

Yes, I go to Harvard, I have sex, and I blog about it. But I make the same mistakes, wish for the same impossibilities, and play out my role in the same uncomfortable conversations as everyone else. The reasons are different but the message is the same, and ivy-covered walls offer no protection against the pain that is wrought by fractured expectations. At the end of the night, I go to bed disappointed. In the morning, I wake up alone.