All the single ladies: put your hands down. We. Were. Wrong.I’ve fooled around with Mr. Masquerade, flirted with Mr. What Was I Thinking and even entertained a fling with Mr. Good Enough For Right Now . . . but my momentary adoration was but fleeting dandruff in the wind. I have seen the Promise Land. I have seen Mr. F. And he has seen me . . . run away.The first time I saw him was like the first time I ever truly looked at the stars, infinite in all their wonder. He was the prettiest thing I’d ever seen up close, the incarnate of every Judd Apatow film I’d ever watched: the smile of a Franco, the wit of a Cera, the musk of a Rogen–t’was love.Then came the first time he saw me (which, if you didn’t know, were two very different experiences). I had done the necessary Caf scan and thought the coast was clear. But just as I turned the corner, there he was. I tried to avoid eye contact, but the damage was done and he was headed in my direction. The thing about seeing your crush in the Caf is that it’s a little like diarrhea: you’re fine if you keep moving, but you know you only have about 30 seconds to play with. I abandoned both my books and my dignity as I ran out the back door, all the while wondering what arm to tattoo “pansy” on.
He saw me again as we set across each other in the library–him, studiously silent, me, silently immobile. Too paralyzed to say anything clever, bright or even complimentary, I crafted a scheme to capture his attention: I would strategically disable my headphones from my computer when a worship song began, then politely excuse myself, and hopefully begin a light chit-chat . . . ‘till death do us part. Would it be noticeable? Yes. Would it be simple? Perhaps not honorable, but innocent enough. Would it put me in his favor? Of course. Who doesn’t enjoy a little Hillsong United while you’re dissecting eschatological research? The plan seemed flawless, but I didn’t anticipate the stillness of the library to absorb my music, and I quietly gathered my things as I was verbally flogged by the librarian.
To avoid yet another chance run-in, I have now barricaded myself in a stuffy dorm room, trading my sanity for serenity, and my confidence for self-deprecating glares in the bathroom mirror. I’ve fasted all week, living on trident gum and cotton balls, to keep clear of the Caf; I’ve even avoided all computers, since I can navigate his Facebook page better than he can. My prayers have been fervent, selfish even, but all in great efforts to resist temptation . . . if this doesn’t count for Soul Care credit, I don’t know what does.
I wasn’t always this pathetic. However, my fixation on Mr. F is manifested only in self-inflicted humiliation, and as a result, I have sacrificed social status for a few stolen glances during Shine. How can one diagnose love, let alone judge it? This column is to you: to the ones who stumble and mumble; the ones who pluck and curl; to the lonely girl (because with VU’s ration, two out of three always are).
But above all else, this column is to you, Mr. F. The story of a girl pursuing a boy to pursue her. This is an open dialogue of what it really takes to get Cinderella to that ball.
Oh Jesus, take the wheel.