Greek spaces, eating spaces, study spaces -- it seems like no place is safe from public displays of affection. Now the Internet, which should solely be the domain of kinky porn, is being overrun by so-cute-you-barf love notes and coupley melodrama. Sandra Himen takes a stand against the PDA that you find on your PDA.
At my first Chi Gam dance party, I was horrified. Self-consciously sober, I ogled at couples falling over each other, white people gyrating in their own mortifying renditions of hip-hop dance, complete strangers making out -- publicly (gasp!). By sophomore fall, however, my DFMO (Dance-Floor Make Out) virginity, like my beloved black North Face, had become another nameless victim of the Chi Gam dance floor.
It's an unspoken agreement, a pact we all made upon entering the dingy, techno-blasting, body odor"emanating room. As long as you clearly just met on the dance floor and watched enough Soul Train reruns to execute the backwards pelvic thrust, then no one's judging you. As long as there's no real emotion and you won't ever speak to each other again except for the awkward exchange in your 10A women and gender studies class, then you're off scot-free.
With the exception of a disgruntled disc jockey, no one seems to mind the random couple making out on the speakers, the two freshman roommates grinding on the pole and the sloppy mass orgy of drunk, maladjusted, sexually frustrated college kids. In its own twisted way, the Chi Gam dance floor has spawned a revolution, a new era where, at least from 11 p.m. to 3 a.m., drunken debacles of affection are completely socially acceptable.
We thought finally we had made peace with public displays of affection; then a new kind of PDA -- a malignant, skeezy and downright filthy beast -- reared it's ugly, virtualized head. Mark Zuckerberg, thanks to you, PDA has now entered the realm of Facebook.
Maybe I'm just bitter, maybe I'm washed up and past my prime, maybe I'm self conscious that my left breast is saggier than my right and Heorot no longer sends me party Blitzes, but there is nothing I find more disdainful than young, ripe love confirmed on Facebook.
Imagine a (not so) hypothetical situation. After a long day -- first witnessing the Novack-line couple exchange Eskimo kisses, then a pair of horny squirrels copulate on Frat Row -- there is nothing I want more then to sign onto the good old FB and kick back. You know, send that '11 anonymous death threats, expand my ninja army, poke my Hanover High crush. Yet, I can't even get past my newsfeed filter without being bombarded by public displays of disgusting:
11:43 p.m. January 4th, 2008: X is no longer listed as single
11:44 p.m. January 4th, 2008: X and Y are now in a relationship.
4:33 p.m. February 8th, 2008: Y has written on X's wall: "I love you baby. Kisses."
5:55 p.m. February 8th, 2008: X has written on Y's wall: "hey sweetheart, i can't believe how amazing the last 4 days with you, (and 4 nights, hehe.) I cant wait to cover you in kisses. You're my everything. Miss you my mooky."
February 14th, 2008: Y has received a rose from X.
Vaguely reminiscent of my first experience with the Chi Gam dance floor, I'm struggling to repress my gag reflex. Since when did it become endearing to express your personal feelings to a significant other via a public wall-post? When did eternal, everlasting love become synonymous with a $1 virtual gift?
What's even more uncomfortable for all parties involved is when relationship skiffs are broadcast to the cyber community. Take the my favorite couple, X and Y:
4:43 p.m. March 7, 2008: Y has written on X's wall: "Cute pict baby. Who's that girl?"
2:04 am March 9, 2008: Y has written on X's wall: "I miss you. Mwah."
2:11 am March 16, 2008: Y has written on X's wall: "Why must you delete all my kisses?"
7:32 p.m. March 18, 2008: X is no longer listed as in a relationship.
7:33 p.m. March 18, 2008: Y is now listed as single.
7:42 p.m. March 18, 2008: Y has updated her mood. She is "lonely and confused."
3:04 am March 19, 2008: X has received a gift from Y. It is a bleeding heart.
Even if we decide to reluctantly accept the Facebook break-up as convention, there simply are not enough relationship-status options to encapsulate the roller coaster of emotions of an actual reality-based, not cyber, relationship. As X and Y could tell you, there's often more to the story than simply "It's complicated." What about "Currently questioning my sexuality?" Or, "The sex is great, but it's like talking to a Chia Pet." Or "Made out once on the Chi Gam dance floor, Blitzed sporadically until the time I blacked out, wet the bed and woke up spooning a small poodle?"
Mark Zuckerberg, do us all a favor: Get laid, and get a clue.
Sandra is a staff writer for The Mirror. The only place she specifies personal romantic details is Craigslist.
