One of the more memorable evenings started at a grocery store, where my date surprised me by saying, “Tonight, we are going to buy ingredients to make dinner.”
“Sounds good,” I replied, remaining optimistic.
“But there is one catch,” he said, pausing dramatically. “We can only use this!” He pulled out four dirty quarters and jingled them in front of my face.
“Okay . . .” I said with a forced smile.
“But don’t worry,” he went on, “we can go back to your apartment and use anything there to make dinner as well.”
In case you’re as confused as I was at this point, I’ll break it down for you. This boy took me to a grocery store, gave me his extra laundry change to buy “dinner,” and then invited himself back to my apartment to eat my food. What a Romeo.
Since this was probably the worst date I had ever been on, the last thing I wanted to do was take him back to meet my roommates, but I couldn’t see a way around it. We ended up buying instant pudding with his stupid dollar and went back to my apartment to find real food. When we walked in the door, Mackenzie and Kelsey were doing homework at the kitchen table. At the sight of my date they both assumed our evening was going well. While he rummaged through my pantry, they gestured thumbs-up and mouthed things like, “He’s cute!” and “Way to go!” I appreciated their enthusiasm, but while his back was turned I made a few gestures of my own.
Then there was the guy whose idea of a creative date was making me sit in a wheelchair the entire night. It started out innocently enough. He picked me up, opened my door, and drove me to a restaurant. The conversation was fine, and I thought I was in for a relaxing evening. However, as I was about to get out of the car, he held up a hand and said, “Before you get out I have a small surprise.” He ran around to the trunk and met me at my door, with a wheelchair.
“You get to spend the evening in a wheelchair,” he said beaming, as if he were whisking me off to Paris. If someone were to pull this on me today I would simply say, “No thanks,” but I had never been faced with such a ridiculous request. Before I knew what was happening, I was sitting in a wheelchair! It was horrifying, sitting there, knowing full well I was masquerading as disabled. And did I mention he took me to a buffet? This presented a whole host of additional problems. I spent far too much time trying to maneuver in and out of buffet lines and tables, not to mention that I couldn’t see any of the food choices.
“Are there nuts in that salad?” I asked, craning my neck to see what was in each tray. “I’ll just have that.”
As you can imagine, I didn’t dare attempt to go back for seconds. I did, however, need to use the bathroom. I awkwardly wheeled myself over to the restrooms where I sat in front of the closed door for a full minute before deciding to stand up and leave the chair in the hall. Following this humiliating experience, he took me to a bowling alley. Back in the chair, I spent the rest of the evening aiming a ball down a metal track they brought out to accommodate me. It was embarrassing enough having special treatment when I knew I didn’t need it, but the thought of anyone noticing that I was faking was even more daunting. As I sat there, trying not to move too much, I wondered, Is the “problem” in my back or my legs? Wait, what? This is so wrong!
Admittedly, I did my share of being the bad date in college. One time, Marina and I hitched a ride to Utah with a friend of a friend. He was incredibly attractive, and the first half hour of the drive was full of witty conversation. This could really turn into something, I thought. Unfortunately, I spent the last ten and a half hours periodically asking him to pull over so I could puke on the side of the road. Thankfully, I was able to fall asleep, only to wake myself up with a fart minutes later. There is no recovering from that.
At the next pit stop, Marina and I were in the bathroom when she lamented my sickness. “Girl, I’m so sorry you’re sick,” she said in her thick Russian accent. “But that was really embarrassing. Like, really embarrassing. I was dying in the backseat. Like really, really, really—”
“I get it! I’m a farting, barfing embarrassment.”
Marina has never been much for sugarcoating. We got back in the car, where I continued to embarrass her for the remainder of the drive. Several weeks after our trip, we tried to invite the guy over for dinner in an effort to salvage what was left of my reputation. He was busy—most likely with a girl who hadn’t made a Dutch oven out of the confined space of his car. If you’re reading this now, attractive friend of a friend, my dinner offer still stands.
While these dates were definite busts, I’ll give my eating disorder credit for ruining any real chance for love in general. Even if the guys were nice and interesting I wouldn’t have noticed, so long as the night involved eating dinner, dessert, or—worst-case scenario—both. I had a hard enough time finding food I felt comfortable eating at the grocery store. The chances of finding something that met my standards at a restaurant were slim to none. While they talked about their jobs or hobbies, I panicked about the fat in my meal and the best way to eat around it. I can’t tell you how many times I was escorted into the Pizza Pie Cafe feeling like a prisoner, the panic in my chest rising as my date piled slice after greasy slice on his plate, expecting me to do the same.
One time, my date looked at my small helping and said, “Is that all you’re going to have? It’s all-you-can-eat, don’t be shy.”
I’m not shy, you moron. I’m anorexic.
In spite of these distractions I did manage to date a few normal dudes in college. John Doe was my official boyfriend for only four months. In that time, everyone I knew fell in love with him—except for me. In fact, when I broke it off I think Brooke was more upset than I was. He was charming, muscular, and had a smile that would melt your face off. Aside from the obvious physical attraction, John was also one of the most genuinely kind people I have ever met. No matter where we went he made people feel special. As a result, we were upgraded, promoted, and doted on. He was the poor man’s millionaire. We didn’t get extra perks because we were rich or well known; we got them because he was smoother than a greased cookie sheet. On the flip side, the man was also about as deep as a greased cookie sheet. In the middle of a hard day’s work, I frequently went over to his place to find him basking in the sun. He’d ask about my day, and I’d tell him about school, work, and my latest music project. When it was his turn, he’d say, “I went to the gym this morning, made a protein shake, practiced some guitar, and now I’m workin’ on a little tan.” I think that was the part where I was supposed to swoon over his hot bod. Instead, I was thoroughly distracted by trying to figure out how he could possibly spend an entire day working out and tanning. I knew it was officially over when he told me his mom had never missed a day at the gym.
There was another guy I really liked, and we went out on and off for several months. He was the smart, driven type, and he had a face like Edward Cullen—cold and sparkly. When he finally kissed me, I came home and told my roommates. They screamed the way girlfriends should and demanded details.
“How was it?!”
“Was it like kissing a vampire?”
“Tell us!”
I paused and said, “It was . . . a mom kiss.”
He had literally leaned in and touched his lips to mine. I think his tube of ChapStick got more action than I did that night. They say you can tell a lot from your first kiss with someone, and “they” must be right, because that was the end of our relationship. I also dated a cute nerd, Vick, who didn’t realize he was a nerd. In fact, he’ll probably read this and have no idea I’m talking about him. We had been friends for a very long time. So long, that I had already met his entire family. After I broke up with John and then Mom Kiss, he forcefully told me he was going to be my boyfriend. For a while I thought our relationship was really going somewhere, until he confided that he didn’t think he could ever love one person completely. I knew it wasn’t true, but I took it as an indication that he probably wouldn’t ever love me completely. Way to kill the mood,
Vick.
I think the thing that upsets me most about my uneventful dating life is the fact that I know I would be an amazing grandmother. I practically am one already! I say things like “You’re darn tootin’ ” and “Don’t get caught in your skivvies.” I like comfortable shoes, I get cold easily, and I don’t eat cookie dough for fear of salmonella poisoning. Now if I could just find a man to make some grandkids, I would be set. I think I’d be a pretty okay mom, too. I love holidays, and if I had my own family, I could stop harassing my tour crew with little parties that none of them really want to attend. At Halloween, my future kids and I will make a haunted house in the garage; at Christmas, we’ll dress up as elves and dance for the neighbors; for Valentine’s Day, we’ll make homemade cards; and on Groundhog Day, we’ll take turns digging holes in the backyard and declaring spring. I want to live my life in chaos, surrounded by Mini-Mes who think I’m a weirdo but love me unconditionally. In the meantime, I could settle for a kitten. Just one—or twelve.
YOU HAVE TO
IF YOU WANT TO
When I met Cassie for the first time I was elbow deep in a pot of refried beans. Beans have always been one of my comfort foods, so after I finished unpacking my new college apartment, I called my mom and asked her to walk me through the recipe. After boiling the beans for several hours, the next step is to squish them using a potato masher. The only problem was I didn’t own a potato masher. In a pinch, I reached my hands into the pot and began squeezing the beans between my fingers. It was very therapeutic, actually. Seconds later, Cassie walked in the door, and I was mortified. I smiled sheepishly and thought, Hi, I’m your new roommate. I’d shake your hand, but right now mine are covered in a magical fruit. She came closer to confirm that I was actually doing what she thought I was doing. Then she said, “Alrighty then,” and continued down the hall to her room. I couldn’t believe it! I had been there less than twenty-four hours, and I was already the crazy roommate.
A few days later I was sitting at the table eating . . . you guessed it, beans. Cassie entered the kitchen and asked casually, “Hey Lindsey, how are those beans? Remember when I came home and you were squeezing them with your bare hands?”
I dropped my head in shame. “Unfortunately, yes,” I said.
She threw her head back and let out one of the greatest laughs I had ever heard. Cassie doesn’t giggle or chuckle, she literally HA HAs. Each “HA” is clear and contagious.
In between her laughter, she continued. “I know you’re a little weird, because who isn’t? But at first I thought you were going to be legit weird—like collect-fingernail-trimmings or sleep-in-the-bathtub weird.”
“I didn’t have a masher,” I whimpered with my head in my hands.
This made her HA HA even louder, and I knew we were going to get along just fine. Later I found out she couldn’t sleep without a baby noisemaker, ever. Suddenly, my refried bean incident didn’t seem so strange. All my roommates in Apartment 123 were a little weird in their own rights, but our quirks brought us together more than they ever pulled us apart.
Growing up I was always very independent and proud of my individuality. Unfortunately, my eating disorder took that from me. I lost all confidence and didn’t know myself well enough to form close relationships. Living in an apartment with so many unique and strong-willed girls helped me to rediscover my personality.
When I started experimenting with hip-hop violin music, I spent hours every day practicing and dancing in front of the mirror in Cassie and Becca’s room. (With their permission of course.) Brooke was always studying in our room, and even if she wasn’t, the clothes we had strewn all over the floor prevented me from adequately using my dance skills. My dancing was awkward, and my playing was sloppy. Normally, this would have made me feel self-conscious. However, knowing that Kelsey was in the next room practicing the choreography from Beyoncé’s music videos in a leotard made me feel completely normal. They accepted everything about me wholeheartedly, and they became my family away from home.
In spite of our close friendship, I can count the number of times I have cried in front of my roommates on three fingers. One night, after a rough day at work I came home in tears. I thought if I kept my head down as I walked through the door no one would notice. Mackenzie was dishing up some of her notorious fart-smelling cheese tortellini in the kitchen. At the sound of the door she turned and lifted her bowl of pasta in the air.
In her best Italian accent she said, “Lindsey! Can I interest you in some-a tortellini de farte?”
I let out a pathetic attempt at a pity laugh, and the smile fell from her face.
“Lindsey? What’s wrong?”
I tried to smile, but my lips faltered and a small sob escaped my mouth.
“Oh Mackenzie,” I said, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
It was a lie; I knew exactly what was wrong, I just didn’t know how to fix it. We talked about the surface issues—the bad day I’d had at work and my frustrations with school. When I was done, she set both hands on the table. “I know exactly what you need.”
“What?”
She looked me square in the eyes and said, “Mona.” The corners of her mouth turned up into a grin so wide I could have crawled inside. In a matter of minutes she forced all five of us out of the apartment and into her forest-green Toyota Camry.
“Where are we going again?” Brooke asked.
“Mona,” Mackenzie replied.
“And what exactly is in Mona?”
“A surprise.”
When Mackenzie finally stopped the car thirty minutes later, we were parked in front of a dark clump of trees.
“Follow me,” she said, grabbing a flashlight and leading us down a small trail into the dark. When the trees cleared we stopped at the edge of a large, dark pond.
“Welcome to Mona Pond,” she said proudly.
“It’s lovely,” Kelsey spoke in monotone, “but why are we here?”
“To go skinny-dipping, of course,” Mackenzie replied. “Don’t look!” she yelped as she threw off her clothes and scampered into the black water.
“Mackenzie! You’re naked . . . in a pond!” I screamed.
She was swimming from side to side in the dark.
“I know! Trust me, you’ll love it.”
“Why not?” Cassie said, tossing off her clothes and tiptoeing into the water.
Becca was next, followed by Kelsey, and finally I slipped awkwardly into the pond. After a few minutes, Kelsey got comfortable enough to take a ride on an old rope swing hanging from a lakeside tree. I laughed until I thought I might drown a delightful, naked death.
“Don’t you feel better, Linds?” Mackenzie asked.
“Strangely, yes,” I replied.
Brooke had stitches on her foot at the time, so she showed her support by stripping down on shore and running circles around six piles of clothes. Cassie’s HA HAs skipped across the water and up toward the moon.
From the outside looking in we appeared to be an outgoing and happy group of girls. And we were happy for the most part, but even I didn’t realize until much later that each of my roommates were fighting their own battles. One of us was going through heartbreak, one of us had parents who were divorcing, and a couple of us struggled with depression. We didn’t openly talk about these things often, but every time one of these burdens got too heavy to bear we returned to Mona. Sometimes we didn’t know the exact reason for our visit, but we didn’t need to. The only thing that mattered was that one of us needed to get away. No one should have to get away alone, or fully clothed.
Maybe skinny-dipping isn’t the most traditional way to deal with problems, but we were never too concerned with social rules. In fact, we eventually made a rulebook for the sole purpose of “throwing it out the window.” We kept it on the coffee table, and anytime one of us wanted to do something socially questionable, we wrote it down in the rulebook and did it anyway. Here are some rules to throw out the window in college (or anytime, for that matter) br
ought to you by the girls of Apartment 123.
Rule #1:
Skinny-dipping is naughty. (MONA BABY!)
Rule #2:
The man has to make the first move. Don’t text him unless he texts you. (Bleh.)
Rule #3:
You can’t wear black with brown. (Says who?)
Rule #4:
Only eat breakfast for breakfast. (As if.)
Rule #5:
Paying for things with all change is tacky. (And functional!)
Rule #6:
Shower every day. (Three days.)
Rule #7:
Don’t EVER kiss on a first date. (But if you do, kiss him good.)
Rule #8:
Always get eight hours of sleep. (Psh!)
Rule #9:
Don’t wear socks with flip-flops. (Umm . . . okay.)
Rule #10:
Finish your homework before you play. (Unless something really fun is happening.)
Rule #11:
Always wear a bra. (No.)
Rule #12:
Glitter is for twelve-year-olds. (And my toenails.)
Rule #13:
Don’t eat more than your date. (Unless your date is a pansy.)
Rule #14:
When you finish up the last of the powdered milk, you have to mix up another batch. (You don’t have to, but it’s polite.)
The Only Pirate at the Party Page 10