Booby-trap boys

THE GOOD, THE BAD AND THE LOVELY
From the quiet stacks at the Wells Library to the hustle and bustle on Kirkwood, IU students are whispering about their latest hookup story. Every week, my confidante Nancy and I talk out our proud and embarrassing highlights — from the different worlds of a daring, eccentric party girl and a good, preppy sorority sister — because the only thing we like better than cornhole is a scandalous gab. There are certain things in life that must be learned the hard way. After getting your jeans caught in the bicycle chain, you realize that you must cuff them first.

Or you realize that it is sometimes better to buy textbooks the week after class starts, a terrific lesson after the professor announces that the $173 gold plated edition 9 Economics Guide is unnecessary. These rules of wisdom can also be applied to the world of dating where I seem to be slipping on banana peels left and right.

THE SIT DOWN RULE

As I was picking up a lock in the basement of the SRSC, a good-looking, brown-haired guy asked me for my phone number. Because he had nice eyes, I jotted down my cell on a piece of paper and continued my workout with more confidence than normal.
(Whether or not one would like to admit it, a whistle blow from a construction worker makes a difference.) The kind-eyed guy called me the next day and asked to go out for dinner. I agreed and when he picked me up, I was still clueless as to where I had gone wrong.

On our walk from the car to the restaurant, I discovered that I was on a date with big foot. The dude was at least 7 feet tall. For starters, my neck was beginning to hurt.
Secondly, I think it would be physically impossible for us to have sex. I will never
R.S.V.P. to a date unless I am aware of their full presence. Looks like I am going to start taking notes from Nancy and her 6’0-6’5 preference.

THE MOMMA’S BOY

Loving your mother is completely great, fi ne and natural. However, if Mom is mentioned more than once, twice, three times — do not hesitate to run.

It was a summer fling when I was 17, and with his dark sideburns and strong bone structure, I knighted him Elvis. Perhaps because we spent so much time doing activities such as beach volleyball and hanging out in large groups, it took me too long to realize he was an overly sensitive stage-nine freak. One extra hot day, Elvis bought me an ice cream cone.

As I licked my strawberry ice cream while intensely focusing on how to keep it from drizzling all over myself, Elvis spilled his heart out to me ... about his mother. Just be thankful I was not eating hard food, because I probably would have choked. Elvis proceeded to tell me how he most enjoys snuggling up and whispering in bed with his mama.

At this point, I was as frozen as my ice cream because he was nestling my shoulder to somehow simulate this bondage with his mom. This is where I needed Dr. Evil to step in and say, “No, Elvis, we do not gnaw on our kitty.” Take into account that Elvis was a ripe 19 at the time, where hobbies exceed foot jammies and mommy. I seriously got up right then and walked away.

GREASE MONKEYS

Please understand how I fell into this trap. I was in 10th grade and other than having boyish curly hair, he had a sweet ride. A 2004 Pontiac GTO in a sleek, black finish.
You do not argue with that. When he invited me to hang out at his house after school, more than riding home in the GTO awaited me. Little did I know that automobiles were his pride and joy. His dad had a twofloor garage complete with a vehicle for every occasion.

If they needed to arrive in style, there was a classic Bentley. On a rough-and-tough day, there was the dodge ram pickup truck. Take your pick. The entire afternoon was spent in his garage working on a car.

Each following day was a different car. I was needed to pass him the tools and keep his lemonade replenished. At first it was cool, and he taught me how to change a tire. But a girl can only stand so much. Even if I revved up my engine and started to wave flags, I don’t think he would have been more attentive.

So I hit the road and zoomed away. The same way Indiana Jones knows exactly where each booby trap is going to pop out is how I will learn the ropes of dating.

Despite my trial-and-errors, I realize that they are necessary in order to get it right. The best thing to gain from a mistake is a lesson.