Alright, I'll say it: I'm a senior girl. And like many senior girls, I'm confident, self-possessed and have no problem with the fact that a 2 really starts at 1:45. But I'm warning you, underclass boys, steer clear of us -- every single one. We're no good, I'm telling you. And not in a sultry, Amy-Winehouse-lyrics kind of a way. More like, Britney-Spears-in-a-tracksuit-beating-up-the-paparazzi-with-an-umbrella kind of no good.
While we may be older, with a sort of forbidden-fruit allure, this is where the benefits of dating a senior woman stop. Now, I don't pretend to know the habits and peccadilloes of every '09 female on this campus, but I can pretty much infer through personal experience. This is not an extensive list, just Reasons Dartmouth Renders Senior Girls Undateable, otherwise known as Personal Characteristics That Make Dating Me Suck So Much:
- A bizarre and impossible mix of high and low expectations. So I've been at Dartmouth for three years now, and am making pretty quick progress on that fourth. If I were a library book, I'd have been in circulation long enough that I've been dog-eared a bit. But I'm still entirely readable, and no kid's gotten to me with a box of crayons yet. This means that when a moon-eyed youth with a hint of moustache beginning to grow in approaches me, I'm automatically skeptical. I mean, I'm willing to be checked out, even get some overdue fines. But only if he's a very good reader.
On the other hand, when I see a personal connection starting to develop, I don't know what to do. This isn't the way it's supposed to work, I tell myself. Why would he Blitz me out of the blue, just for a conversation? Why does he want to get dinner and hang out every day and -- gasp -- hold my hand? This kind of behavior is going to make me incredibly creeped out. And yet, it's what I've been complaining about not having since I stepped onto campus in September 2005. A quandary, yes, but not an original one. Don't even try to rationalize, young ones. There's no way to win.
-
An inability to think about anyone other than myself. I'm graduating in less than eight months. Not counting vacations, that's about 26 weeks left in my college career. I have TAS, QDS, and SLA distribs, a gym credit, a swimming test and a culminating experience to plough through, not to mention the last part of my language requirement. I'm applying to jobs, dropping resums, seeking out exploratory interviews, tracking the market more often than the weather ... and you want me to have time to talk about how your pledge term is going? Sure, you may be having a hard time picking a major or deciding what to do with your off-term -- should you go home and play Halo 3 or pursue that internship in Swaziland? -- but I've got bigger fish to fry. My entire future lies in the balance, and that means I'm stressed out. And seeing you with all these delightful dilemmas that I would kill to have right now doesn't make for a particularly warm, loving relationship.
-
An obsessive need to think long-term. What happens after I graduate? I get a job and you continue to take "Vampires, Witches, and Firebirds" and "Clapping for Credit?" You come live with me for the summer, but Mom and Dad pay your half of the rent? And since I'm a senior, I'm not looking for a short-term hookup either. I'll settle for stability in my time of trial, but I'd prefer a first-year analyst. And you want someone who'll look you in the eyes with respect, or at least recognition, for a minute or two, especially when you tell her you golden-treed two senior brothers last night. I'll give you a hint: Neither of those dreams are coming true.
-
An overdeveloped need to 'keep up with the boys.' I've spent my last three years chugging, booting and all around attempting to be a sweet dude. I'm not content with being the smartest, loudest or fastest (drinking) -- here's the kicker -- girl. Why else would you apply to a school that still constantly refers to its Good Ole Boys? What used to be a healthy appetite for competition has, in the last few years, turned into a defensive, faux-testosterone-filled bravado that is neither attractive nor productive, unless of course you want me to do a quick six. So how does this translate to the dating scene? I won't be happy until I've trounced you. And then I won't like you anymore because you're soft.
So here's my appeal to all underclass males: If you want a low-maintenance, fun girl who likes pizza and beer, watching the game and a little sweet lovin' now and again, sorry -- I lost her under the stress of senior year. Go find an '11 or '12 girl. Actually, mack on the prospies. That's where the real gems are hidden. Don't even worry about the fact that they're underage.
