Everyone succumbs at one point or another in their life to idiosyncratic behavior that is not completely understood by others.
Typically, one's fetishes don't necessarily provoke embarrassment or discomfort, but this past week, I had a most traumatic experience. I entered the Topliff bathroom at about 7 p.m. and rushed through my daily "fetish" ritual of placing sheets of scratchy generic New Hampshire toilet paper on the germ-infested toilet seat.
No pleasurable reading of such campus publications as The Forum or The Dartmouth Review was permitted as I was meeting a friend at Food Court for dinner at 7:15.
Well, everything seemed to go smoothly in the bathroom and I headed to dinner with my hands freshly washed and my shirt neatly tucked into my navy blue L.L. Bean jeans.
What I never noticed at the time was a trail of white toilet paper hanging out of the back of my pants, yearning to be liberated from the belt.
Ironically, my night began to slowly increase in excitement as I made my way to dinner. In fact, I could not help but notice that I became the center of attention for many an attractive Dartmouth woman as I entered the neo-romanesque Food Court surroundings. Stares of indescribable delight headed in my direction and I finally felt the all-encompassing thrill of being a sought-after Grand Ol' Dartmouth Senior.
Well, as I stood beaming in the middle of Food Court, numerous thoughts overwhelmed my psyche, each of which rationally explained my new-found appeal to members of the opposite sex.
Maybe my recently ordered L.L. Bean clothing was wreaking havoc on the female population; maybe the $6.00 cologne I bought door-to-door freshman year was really more effective once it reached its expiration date; maybe the Joe Piscopo weight gainer I tried sophomore year finally was kicking in after a year and half of gastro-intestinal problems; maybe the effects of my Buns of Steel and Stop the Insanity workouts had finally become noticeable form afar; or maybe the 130-pound "Grandma, can you help me carry my luggage" look finally was having its long-awaited, rightful effect on Dartmouth women.
Well, whatever the reason for my instantaneous development of an unlimited quantity of animal magnetism, I soaked in all the glory, standing in an Adonis-like pose with my butt cheeks clenched and calf-muscles contracted, leaning against the silverware table at Food Court.
At about 7:20, my friend finally arrived and we each grabbed a tray and subsequently made our weekly speculation on the content of Food Court's Shepherd's Pie (for the record, we guessed some rare variety of blood sausage). Nauseated by the taco fillers we had steadfastly sworn by since sophomore summer, we each grabbed a $4.50 chicken, a $1.10 apple juice, a $1.00 yogurt and a .70 bagel.
Unfortunately for me, my friend, all through the gaseous eruptions and stagnant conversation that embodied dinner, never once mentioned my "Squeeze my Charmin" fashion statement. He was either oblivious to my predicament or was seeking revenge for my iniquitous habit of stealing from his private stash of Pop Tarts, Kudos, Bugles and Animal Crackers (the four basic college food groups, I assure you).
After dinner had finally come to an end, my friend and I slowly left Food Court, stopping to say hello to everybody we knew (old roommates, freshman tripees, random '99's, Ludwig von Plutonium).
Once again, all eyes became fixed on me and, by this point, I was exuding an overwhelming sense of Conan the Barbarian confidence, walking in pectoral-muscles-extended fashion out of our much beloved Thayer Hall. Energized after an exhilirating dinner, I walked briskly back to Topliff, rushing away from the mob of women who were undoubtedly trying to attract me with their impassioned looks and starry-eyed stares.
It wasn't until I decided to unbuckle my belt and go to sleep that the mystery of the wonderous looks finally made perfect sense.
Hanging about a foot down my back was a train of abrasive dormitory toilet paper with Ludwig Plutonium's autograph and a lip-stick stained message that read as follows: "Wimp, suck in your chest, quit criticizing Food Court prices, try the Eddie Bauer catalog for a change and please stop wearing that cheap cologne. Love, the women of Dartmouth."
Oh to be a Dartmouth Senior!!!
