When Romeo asked me out (our date is still TBA), I knew he was a decent guy. He’s good looking. He can sing. He’s easygoing. I wasn’t really that into him, but I figured I’d give it a shot.
A few days later, I was lying in bed, pretending I was doing homework, when Romeo asked me to study with him.
I was already doing something extremely important (shopping online), and I was wearing my favorite pajamas (red flannel with polar bears). In any other circumstance I would have declined immediately. But, because I promised you, my singular reader, to pursue my kiss like it’s a Horcrux, I put on some yoga pants (what an upgrade) and headed up the single flight of stairs separating our living quarters. You’re welcome.
Things we talked about while “studying,” plus my thoughts on each:
1. His fraternity- Oh, you’re in one of those? How interesting and unique.
2. The class we have together- I’d rather be in lecture.
3. Music- He has decent taste. I can work with it.
3. His fraternity- This sounds familiar.
4. His fraternity- I changed out of my polar bear pajamas for this?
I’m being harsh, but let’s be honest, we didn’t have a whole lot to talk about. He was cute though, and he seemed nervous. I cut him some slack.
The next day, I was enjoying a mid-class nap when my phone vibrated, startling me awake. It was a single vibration — the email kind. This should not be confused with the double vibration, which signifies a text message or Facebook notification. I’m pretty sure that’s the kind of vibration the Beach Boys were singing about. The email vibrate conveys a different meaning entirely. It’s like Navi, that fairy from Zelda — annoying as hell and ever-present.
Emails are dreadful. Emails are more than three times as likely (according to my very own Department of Incorrect but Extremely Useful Statistics) to bear bad news than any other form of communication. But that day was a lucky one. That day it was a package email.
The “You Got a Package, Yay!” email is rare but always exciting. It’s like Oprah announcing her retirement all over again. I ran through my schedule in my head, deciding what was OK to skip so I could get to my package as quickly as possible. Once class was over, I was out the door with sonic speed.
The package was from my parents. I ripped off the paper eagerly, unveiling an Urban Outfitters box. I wondered aloud whether it would be a new dress or the boots I had said I wanted. I started to slice the sides open with scissors but abandoned neatness entirely in an effort to speed up the process, ripping the box apart with abandon. Mini Twizzlers packages and Hershey’s bars came spilling out. It was like a sad piñata. My spoiled-brat heart pouted. So much for a new pair of boots.
Expectations are inevitable. Sometimes they result in disappointment. Other times they’re exceeded, leaving you surprised, impressed and feeling a little foolish. That’s why I like to set extremely low goals — work out once a week (a quick run will do), wake up on time half the time and shower at least twice a week. Then I’m all impressed with myself when I accomplish more. It’s called the Law of Diminishing Dissatisfaction.
I’m kidding (mostly). But this whole column thing has got me feeling all pressured to kiss someone, and even though that’s exactly what I signed up for, I don’t like it. I’ve set my expectations high, and it’s a little scary. Four weeks from now, I could be feeling like I opened up a Sperry’s box and found a couple of Reese’s peanut butter cups.
I don’t know about Romeo yet. Maybe next time we have a “study” date he’ll charm my pants off (literally or figuratively). But for now, I’m setting my expectations low. I found a guy who seems to dig me, and that’s farther than I was a few months ago. If I keep this up, I’ll be married by the time I’m 47! Seriously, though, I’m just going to go with it. If I actually snag myself a kiss, it’ll be the cherry lip-gloss on the top.