Hello everyone,
I posted one of my columns (I'm a columnist for my college newspaper) here last week, and I'm afraid I'm having a bit of trouble this week as well. The good news is, it's written. The bad news is it's due at 5:00 PST today and I don't like it...
I still have a little time to revise it and I thought I'd post it here for feedback and suggestions. I'm desperate and any suggestions or criticisms would be appreciated. Thanks so much!!
I spent last Friday night in a city notorious for women with unshaven underarms, artsy coffee shops and mediocre shopping malls. Yes, I’m talking about Eugene. My best friend Marla and I said to each other, "We have dated all of the boys who met our standards (or bought us drinks or told us we were pretty or offered to do our homework) in Corvallis, and it's time we explore new places."
And so we hopped into my sweet 96 Ford Taurus and drove to Eugene at midnight, singing and laughing along the way.
It's 1:00AM and we've driven up and down the same stretch of I-5 for the past fifteen minutes. Finally, we find what we think is the right exit and make our way to what a boy-I-was-sort-of-seeing affectionately called the Meat Market. We are two girls hoping that our intellect and fitted jeans will encourage some guys to try to get to know us better.
It's 1:15 and this bar is different than the ones in Corvallis. There are more guys than girls, which is a definite plus. Unfortunately, a good portion of the guys have low-sloping foreheads and are wearing leather jackets from Costco (both characteristic of creepy perverts). Marla and I figure this will be a night of girl dancing and order two Red Bulls and rock it solo on the dance floor.
It’s 1:20 and two guys approach us. The tall one has a girly name and while his friend is chatting up Marla, he asks me four times where I’m from and why I’m in Eugene. Marla dances with The Friend while I try to keep a good six inches away from Girly Boy who keeps trying to grab my butt. As nice as he is, I'm not interested in being some guy's hump object and spend two whole songs backing away from him until I bump into the wall behind me, trapped.
Marla and I go to the restroom together because we’re girls and that’s what girls do. She says The Friend is really cool, and I tell her Girly Boy is creepy and she promises not to leave me alone with him.
It's 1:30 and I'm hot. Sweat has plastered my hair to my face, and I look like I've been doing Jane Fonda workout tapes in my jeans and heels. I go outside to evaporate, and when I return I scan the dance floor for Marla. I see her making out with The Friend just as Girly Boy spots me and uses his dance moves to corner me in a drunken conversation.
Marla and I make eye contact, she returns my look of desperation with a shrug, and then turns around and continues dancing with The Friend on the other side of the dance floor. Meanwhile, I’m stuck with Girly Boy, who is simultaneously telling me I have nice teeth and pawing at me.
It’s 2:30. The bar is closing, Marla is kissing, and for the past hour, I have been busy avoiding Girly Boy’s grabby hands.
It’s 2:45. I’ve been sitting in the car for ten minutes while Marla says a lengthy goodbye to The Friend she’s known for all of an hour and a half. She opens the door and offers a giggling apology, asking me not to be mad and, by the way, Girly Boy seems cool. This is when I rename myself the Girl-Who-Has-Never-Done-Anything-Wrong and give her the silent treatment.
I am normally the girl people get mad at. Whenever the silent treatment has been involved, I’ve been on the receiving end. This sudden role reversal has made me a little power crazy.
I don’t speak to Marla the whole drive home. I tell myself she’s a bad person who has chosen boys over her friend. I, of course, have never ditched my friends for boys, made my friends come with me to hang out with boys, or tried to seduce my roommate’s boyfriend. After calculating the time I wasted driving to Eugene and talking to Girly Boy, I wish I’d spent my evening renting Sex and the City tapes and living vicariously through Carrie Bradshaw.
Over the next few days, I ignore the apologetic emails, the text messages begging for my friendship, and the handwritten note she left in my mailbox. I have a little more trouble ignoring the $25 for gas that accompanied the note, but I figure 3 out of 4 isn’t bad.
I’m still telling myself, “It’s the principle!” Tuesday evening when I open another email from Marla, asking if I want her to give me more money. I can’t help myself and my anger segues into laughter. I click ‘reply’, ready to forgive and forget. Besides, I ask myself, did subjecting me to an hour of Girly Boy really warrant four days of the silent treatment?
My friends are fun, kind and ridiculously good-looking people. But, like I’m sure a lot of us do, I sometimes forget that they’re also humans who make mistakes.
Maybe we can avoid four days of passive aggressive drama if we were a little quicker to forgive our friends for their dumb mistakes. By the time you read this, hopefully Marla and I will be back to the important things that make up any girl’s friendship—giggling about boys, watching Meg Ryan movies and having late night pillow fights on the bed.
I posted one of my columns (I'm a columnist for my college newspaper) here last week, and I'm afraid I'm having a bit of trouble this week as well. The good news is, it's written. The bad news is it's due at 5:00 PST today and I don't like it...
I still have a little time to revise it and I thought I'd post it here for feedback and suggestions. I'm desperate and any suggestions or criticisms would be appreciated. Thanks so much!!
I spent last Friday night in a city notorious for women with unshaven underarms, artsy coffee shops and mediocre shopping malls. Yes, I’m talking about Eugene. My best friend Marla and I said to each other, "We have dated all of the boys who met our standards (or bought us drinks or told us we were pretty or offered to do our homework) in Corvallis, and it's time we explore new places."
And so we hopped into my sweet 96 Ford Taurus and drove to Eugene at midnight, singing and laughing along the way.
It's 1:00AM and we've driven up and down the same stretch of I-5 for the past fifteen minutes. Finally, we find what we think is the right exit and make our way to what a boy-I-was-sort-of-seeing affectionately called the Meat Market. We are two girls hoping that our intellect and fitted jeans will encourage some guys to try to get to know us better.
It's 1:15 and this bar is different than the ones in Corvallis. There are more guys than girls, which is a definite plus. Unfortunately, a good portion of the guys have low-sloping foreheads and are wearing leather jackets from Costco (both characteristic of creepy perverts). Marla and I figure this will be a night of girl dancing and order two Red Bulls and rock it solo on the dance floor.
It’s 1:20 and two guys approach us. The tall one has a girly name and while his friend is chatting up Marla, he asks me four times where I’m from and why I’m in Eugene. Marla dances with The Friend while I try to keep a good six inches away from Girly Boy who keeps trying to grab my butt. As nice as he is, I'm not interested in being some guy's hump object and spend two whole songs backing away from him until I bump into the wall behind me, trapped.
Marla and I go to the restroom together because we’re girls and that’s what girls do. She says The Friend is really cool, and I tell her Girly Boy is creepy and she promises not to leave me alone with him.
It's 1:30 and I'm hot. Sweat has plastered my hair to my face, and I look like I've been doing Jane Fonda workout tapes in my jeans and heels. I go outside to evaporate, and when I return I scan the dance floor for Marla. I see her making out with The Friend just as Girly Boy spots me and uses his dance moves to corner me in a drunken conversation.
Marla and I make eye contact, she returns my look of desperation with a shrug, and then turns around and continues dancing with The Friend on the other side of the dance floor. Meanwhile, I’m stuck with Girly Boy, who is simultaneously telling me I have nice teeth and pawing at me.
It’s 2:30. The bar is closing, Marla is kissing, and for the past hour, I have been busy avoiding Girly Boy’s grabby hands.
It’s 2:45. I’ve been sitting in the car for ten minutes while Marla says a lengthy goodbye to The Friend she’s known for all of an hour and a half. She opens the door and offers a giggling apology, asking me not to be mad and, by the way, Girly Boy seems cool. This is when I rename myself the Girl-Who-Has-Never-Done-Anything-Wrong and give her the silent treatment.
I am normally the girl people get mad at. Whenever the silent treatment has been involved, I’ve been on the receiving end. This sudden role reversal has made me a little power crazy.
I don’t speak to Marla the whole drive home. I tell myself she’s a bad person who has chosen boys over her friend. I, of course, have never ditched my friends for boys, made my friends come with me to hang out with boys, or tried to seduce my roommate’s boyfriend. After calculating the time I wasted driving to Eugene and talking to Girly Boy, I wish I’d spent my evening renting Sex and the City tapes and living vicariously through Carrie Bradshaw.
Over the next few days, I ignore the apologetic emails, the text messages begging for my friendship, and the handwritten note she left in my mailbox. I have a little more trouble ignoring the $25 for gas that accompanied the note, but I figure 3 out of 4 isn’t bad.
I’m still telling myself, “It’s the principle!” Tuesday evening when I open another email from Marla, asking if I want her to give me more money. I can’t help myself and my anger segues into laughter. I click ‘reply’, ready to forgive and forget. Besides, I ask myself, did subjecting me to an hour of Girly Boy really warrant four days of the silent treatment?
My friends are fun, kind and ridiculously good-looking people. But, like I’m sure a lot of us do, I sometimes forget that they’re also humans who make mistakes.
Maybe we can avoid four days of passive aggressive drama if we were a little quicker to forgive our friends for their dumb mistakes. By the time you read this, hopefully Marla and I will be back to the important things that make up any girl’s friendship—giggling about boys, watching Meg Ryan movies and having late night pillow fights on the bed.
