I have never once been accused of being sexy. This is just blasphemous, frankly, given my near endless supply of whistle-worthy qualities. How any guy could have witnessed my walk men have so kindly described as “goofy,” and “I don’t know, it’s just kinda weird,” and not promptly thrown themselves at me with animalistic desire is a modern day mystery.
Much like the allure of lake bound legends or mountainside mysteries, my charms baffle even the most erudite of men. Watch out, Sasquatch, the illustrious nature of my appeal is set to take your place in the obscure documentary market. Though some may mistake us for the same entity due to the similarity of foot size, abundance of body hair, or reclusive nature when photographed, it’s my time to shine in the hearts of strange bearded men everywhere.
With Victoria’s Secrets seared into my impressionable mind I never once doubted the ability of my boyish hips and below average cup size to bring all the boys to the yard. Unfortunately, further research (aka upholding a strong “wits before tits” policy for any and all frat party costumes) revealed curves are directly related to suitors. This discovery left me with a physique envied only by telephone poles and a Bret Easton Ellis quantity of men.
No guy has ever looked across a crowded room and said, “Damn, that wordy sense of humor and incredible capacity for affection though,” and that, my friends, is a sad and simple fact.
So I, in the wake of roommate peer pressure, did what any able-iphoned millennial would do; I made a Tinder.
After compiling my most deceptive photos, the ones where anyone who knows me at all would say “yeah, I mean it’s a nice picture but it doesn’t really look like you” and applying just the right amount of nonchalance to my profile; (I went with “just one gif away from true love,”) I began my Tinder affair… or was it a… tender affair? *wink*
It was most certainly not a tender affair. I spent fifteen minutes fabricating a deceivingly attractive internet presence for myself followed by five full minutes of swiping. I felt an array of emotions during those five fateful minutes. Guilt. Shame. Power. How easy it was to reject these men on no other grounds than subpar DNA. Eye-rolling dismissal was reserved for those who had coupled decent bone structure with cringe-worthy bigotry, or worse, poor grammar.
Then, the Tinder Gods knelt before me and lit a fire within my chest. I was given the swipe to end all swipes. The pinnacle of millennial woe. There on my screen, smiling sweetly, knowingly… was an ex, an ex who was a mere 2 miles away. 2 miles, or as my immediate stress-sweat implied —way too damn close.
And thus with a feeling of nose-crinkling self-disdain, my Tinder bit the dust.
My Tinder debacle is just one of many off-brand paradigms that have occurred since what I can only describe as the post-study-abroad emotional apocalypse that ensued this summer. Gone is the girl who once cheerfully called “Ciao!” through cobblestone streets, here is the girl who stomps to job interviews in heels adorned with decorative spikes while non-ironically listening to DMX. It’s been a weird couple of months.
I’ve changed my perfume from floral to one that touts such adjectives as “alluring” and “sensual;” and no, that irony is not lost on me. I have embraced a complete disregard for any person who dares criticize my dance moves. I walked by a guy on campus who was wearing a propeller hat with red, yellow and blue sincerity and I felt absolutely nothing at all. I made a Tinder and the only spark I felt was immediate regret.
Never Forget. Never Again. Take this as a reminder: it’s okay to be a Sasquatch in a sea of ubiquitously sexy college women. If it’s bad for your ego, there’s a good chance it’ll be good for your art.