BoldUlysses.com

I still don’t know what she saw in me.

College, second half of sophomore year. After the complete disaster that was the fall semester (lived in a dorm far away from main campus on account of having missed the window of opportunity to claim closer lodging), I secured a cozy room in the basement of Syme, and I was roommate-less until the final month or so of the semester. Having overindulged in television during the first half of the school year, I went tube-free for the spring. I bought a nice rug for the floor, and I put my record player on the wide windowsill and frequented the music stores on Hillsborough Street and Avent Ferry to add to the vinyl collection. I remember leaving the small window cracked on cool spring evenings, and listening to the “quiet storm” jazz station while I read my textbooks. After being trapped in a spiral of laziness the previous semester, I’m honestly not sure where my newfound motivation to make a “home” on campus came from. If I had to augur a guess, I’d say it was something intrinsic to the dorm; Syme has an appealing texture, and its immediate proximity to the design school means some of the aesthetic sensibilities of its academic neighbor rub off. Regardless, I’d found my nest for the next 3 years.

Besides my lodging situation, another new development was interest shown by the former roommate of a girl I briefly dated freshman year (and who holds the distinction of having claimed my first kiss). As roommates, they didn’t work out; rumor had it an actual physical curtain was erected down the middle of the room after only a few weeks. I’d never officially met the girl who expressed interest in me, and I actually don’t even remember how she struck up a friendship; I have a vague memory of her cold-calling me and leaving a message on my campus voicemail. If so, that must’ve taken some guts. I was curious, and met her for lunch. She was medium height, with short brown hair, and was a Park Scholar (full ride + benefits), so there was intelligence there—albeit coupled to almost unbearable shyness. For what it’s worth, I remember putting my best foot forward, even inviting her to one of my friend Greg’s (chaste) pool parties, where she essentially cowered in the corner of the pool despite our best efforts to include her in a game of volleyball. The chemistry wasn’t there, and I really wasn’t that attracted to her, but I also wasn’t mature enough to consider her feelings and keep from stringing her along, since I enjoyed the interest, even if I was still mystified about what prompted it.

I don’t look back on the final (literal) dance with a great deal of pride. After yet another date spent trying desperately to coax her out of her shell, I invited her back to my dorm room, and we sat rigidly on the futon together and attempted to converse. I think maybe she was expecting a “move” at that point, but instead, for some reason, I decided to indulge a fantasy, and I put Suzanne Vega’s “Gypsy” on the record player and asked her to dance with me on my little rug. She agreed, and we swayed awkwardly for the duration of the song, and a few minutes later…went our separate ways. I don’t remember seeing her again. Given her academic credentials, I’ve no doubt she’s doing fine. For my part, I wish I had taken lessons from that non-fling and resolved to not lead girls on, but unfortunately, over the subsequent years, it would take a few more failures before I would really commit to being upfront as early as possible.