Little known fact: I do not watch television and have not owned a television during my time at college. I don’t watch shows on DVD or online. I have not experienced viewer loyalty since Buffy the Vampire Slayer ended during my junior year of high school. This summer, I completed watching the entire Sex and the City series, but only because I previously watched the show when it was on the air and largely because of my reemerging desire to bed John Corbett. Yes, I side with Aidan on the Shaw vs. Big debate.

So I don’t have an explanation for why I love Law & Order: SVU and how it’s managed to keep me up at all hours of the night (note the current time) despite TV Links‘ slow loading time and Currier’s utterly unreliable wifi connection. Perhaps it’s because there’s a morbid fascination with the worst side of humanity, perhaps it’s because the show offers the ultimate in instant gratification (cliffhangers resolved a commercial break later), or perhaps it’s because the characters are actual characters — unlike those in the other L&O franchises — but still static enough for continuity to not matter. Whatever the reason, I tune in to the semiannual marathons, watch reruns with the excitement of a fresh-eyed viewer, and ogle Chris Meloni as if he’s some modern-day Mr. Darcy. With a gun. And anger management issues.

Stabler. Ah, that’s another thing. I am somewhat numb to celebrity and celebrity crushes, having once flirted with the pursuit of entertainment journalism and then realizing its utter boredom. I spotted my pre-teen love (a Backstreet boy — guess which one) at E! Entertainment’s headquarters during an internship there my 17th summer. My heart did not throb as much as I thought it would. But enter Chris Meloni at Elizabeth and Spring St. during my first summer as a non-teen and I am catapulted back into the irrational idolization of middle school. McDreamy I could care less about when given the choice between doctor or detective.

Still, Law & Order: SVU is not what I would call quality television but a guilty pleasure, one I admit to freely but not proudly. The show can be simultaneously simplistic and convoluted and never is it entirely satisfying even though I stay until the last minute to see the storyline play out. Unlike Buffy, it is not stunningly self-aware and the bad guys are nothing more than the bad guys, not metaphors for some universal fear or experience. Unlike Sex and the City, there is never a question of who is right for whom because the show depends on Stabler and Benson not being together. Their highly anticipated coupling would spell the end rather than the beginning. SVU never really evolves, and the plotlines that matter most move along at a snail’s pace.

But maybe that’s why it works. Like a friend with benefits, it is reliable without being overbearing. It is exactly what I want, when I want it (have you seen its syndication rates?) and if I don’t catch an episode this week, it won’t drastically impact next week’s. I can still call back, tune in, and make amends with an hour of one-on-one alone time. Maybe this is a relationship of convenience, maybe the only part of SVU I’ll ever fall in love with are Meloni’s chiseled abs, and maybe I am settling when it comes to what I want from a television show. Still, it is past 3am, I am two episodes down, and I have never been more satisfied. When’s the last time a man made me feel this way?

Though largely uneventful save for my initial panic, the experience with Plan B has nonetheless left me bothered. I could have certainly gone without the inconvenience of a UHS visit and I would have rather not spent the entirety of Monday fielding phone calls from various nurses. But both is typical of any medical issue. Mostly, I didn’t like the reminder that as a woman, incidents such as these make life significantly more difficult than if I were a man.

This is the second time I’ve used Plan B. The first time was in July. My then-boyfriend drove me to the nearest pharmacy, but that was the extent of his involvement in my predicament, in our predicament. But it wasn’t entirely his fault that he wasn’t more involved. I tend to take charge of matters like these, insisting then as I did a couple nights ago that everything was fine, that I would take care of things in the morning. But the truth is that I don’t at all enjoy shouldering the burden of a responsibility belonging to two people, yet whether or not I have a choice, it is a burden that unfairly rests on me.

In July, there were two of us in the convenience store, but one was scanning the aisles and the other was in line, waiting for her number to be called so that she could step up to the counter. I don’t think my discomfort then stemmed from having to face the pharmacist alone. Inexplicably, the whole thing felt like a lonely experience even though he paid and the forms had his address and afterward, he drove us back to his apartment in his car. Despite his role and his presence, I never felt like he was with me when it mattered or where it mattered. But that’s something he couldn’t help then; that’s something Aidan couldn’t help yesterday.

Plan B is taken in two parts and I had my second pill this morning at 9 a.m. without incident. Though some women experience nausea, I didn’t the first time nor did I this time. It’s strange but it feels like there is something terribly symbolic about swallowing that pill. Perhaps it is the fact that I am the one who has to consume it, that my body is the one that counts here. Though it is tiny — easily the smallest piece of medication I’ve ever taken — it is also the most significant, but it is not something I can split in half and hand over to the other person responsible.

We both made a mistake, but I paid for it. And no, it is not his fault, but I wish there were some way last time or this time or the next time for me to feel like it is not just up to me to face alone. Like my summer paramour, the most Aidan could do last night was hold me as I slept. When my alarm rang at 9 a.m., he was the one who got out of bed and turned it off, but I was the one who reached into my purse for the packet I went to such lengths to obtain.

Having just gone to sleep at 5 a.m., I was at once barely conscious and astutely aware of my actions. I was one pill away from ending the nagging feeling I couldn’t shake all weekend, the feeling I was certain he shared but could not entirely understand. Placing the pill on the tip of my tongue, I swallowed hard, twice, before it made its way down my parched throat. Just as I put away the packet, I felt Aidan’s fingertips graze my side, guiding me to bed. I pulled the covers over us and I drifted off with his arms wrapped around me.

During that warm July night I first went to bed with the burden of two on my shoulders, I fell asleep with my back to his chest and the irrational belief that the harder he held me, the less alone I must certainly feel. Last night, I thought it eerie that in a Cambridge, Massachusetts dorm room, I managed to replicate the same feeling 3 months removed and 3,000 miles away. I was with someone slightly younger, slightly better intentioned but just as unable to ease the dull ache at the back of my throat, to erase the reminder that I alone must untangle this mess, because try as he might, he was just a bystander to it all.

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I really appreciated the outpouring of advice and support from other women. It’s great to know that the women on (and off) this campus are so well-informed. During my walk-in, I asked plenty of questions about UHS’s policy on morning after pills. Here’s what I found out:

• Plan B, though approved for over-the-counter distribution, is not yet available in that form. Women must see a nurse practitioner in order to obtain it.
• UHS currently distributes Plan B on the spot, without requiring an additional visit to the pharmacy.
• When Plan B is distributed over-the-counter, it will still be necessary for patients to see the pharmacist on call.
• UHS does not offer the morning after pill in advance. Plan B is distributed only when it is needed (though there is no way to regulate this policy).
• Plan B can be obtained at any time, not just during UHS working hours. There is someone who can offer it 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.

I hope this information is helpful to other Harvard women. You can reach UHS After Hours Urgent Care at 617.495.5711.

I spent last night drinking POM Smartinis at the 02138 magazine launch party. With HN on my arm and liquid courage on my side, I scoped out the scene and wrote up a review for the boys at IvyGate, a Gawkeresque blog devoted to news and gossip at the Ancient Eight. They’re also my newest addiction and drunk-IM victim.

In case you missed it, the first piece I wrote for them was on the state of the college sex column. Because you know, I’m totally qualified to write this shit.

02138 Party Report
Ivy League Sex Column Review

I recommend that readers check out DJ Kammy Kam’s latest post, concerning the Western beauty ideals imposed upon African American women. His blog borrows the name of an India.Arie song, “I Am Not My Hair,” for its title. I suppose it’s fitting that he’s now addressing beauty standards by using hair texture as a springboard.

Sometime mid-summer, I sent CK the India.Arie song above. I thought she’d appreciate it, since she’s in the minority of black women who do not relax their hair. I am actually a big fan of her afro. For all its knots and kinks, her locks are infinitely more interesting and lively than my pin-straight mane. Her hair has a “don’t mess with me” attitude, just like her. That same attitude is why she would never douse it in chemicals or straighten it against its will. But CK’s perspective isn’t exactly popular. She’s probably one of a handful of black women at Harvard who leave their hair in its natural state.

“Unfortunately, we live in the United States,” said one friend trying to explain the phenomenon to me. But I found myself unable to relate. At least when it comes to beauty standards, it’s a hell of a lot easier for me to conform to Western ideals than black women. Yellow, after all, is closer to white than any other color. To be honest, I can’t even think of many physical insecurities I have that white women don’t share. I wish my breasts were bigger and my waist slimmer, but I don’t have kinky hair and my skin color is the perfect shade of California tan.

Still, there’s a whole other set of pressures that come with being Asian and a “foreign” look is one of them. The physical characteristic that most significantly separates white and Asian women is the shape of their eyes. That’s one of the few things I can’t change no matter how many visits to the beauty salon. But thanks to cosmetic surgery, Asian women can now widen their eyes or surgically create an eyelid fold if they so wish — it’s an outpatient procedure. It’s also the most popular cosmetic operation in Japan (decidedly the most Westernized Asian country). From an American perspective, it sounds atrocious but in Asia, it’s as commonplace and accepted as … well, relaxing your hair in America. If CK’s afro is what separates her look from the mainstream, then my eyes are the Asian equivalent.

Last week, I woke up from a nap in a cold sweat. I had a terrible nightmare that CK relaxed her hair without consulting me. With a shoulder-length, artificially straight cut, she looked nothing like herself. In the dream, I was so upset that I started lecturing her and demanded an explanation for how she could sell out. In my conscious state, I’m amused by how angry I was, considering that I’m more superficial than she is by far. Between the two of us, I’m definitely the conformist. But maybe that’s why I found myself so outraged. As looks-conscious as I am, I admire her willingness to rebel. She fights a fight I’m not willing to take on myself. And if CK would give up that feisty poof of hair in the face of external pressure, then who will society tame next?

My nails are so hot right now. I finally got a manicure last week (results above), when Terra and I headed to the nearest and cheapest salon in the Square. I’ve been faking it all summer with acrylics — sturdy, long-lasting, and sexy but difficult as hell in terms of upkeep. Not to mention that they rendered me useless for simple tasks like picking up coins, eating with my hands, pressing small buttons, etc. Can you imagine move-in with 1.5-inch nails? (Keep in mind my hands are really small.)

Now I’m back to a shorter, more practical length. The black polish was a great choice. On the spot, Terra offered her kudos for my color selection. “Kiera Knightley wears black nails,” said my British blockmate approvingly. Indeed, she does, according to The Chicago Tribune. And apparently, so does Lindsay Lohan — my favorite Los Angeles car wreck. When I caught up with Rena in the Mather dining hall and saw that she was donning black as well, I knew I had made a trendy move. The girl knows what she’s doing.

24 hours and multiple compliments later, I’ve determined that I am most definitely “with it” as Damon’s fashion forward roommate put it. Now I’m on a mission to snag the limited edition Chanel Black Satin polish that debuted last month. Retailing for $18, the sold-out shade eBays for as much as triple its original price. I’ll be damned if it doesn’t grace my fingertips.