It’s just another manic Monday, and you spent the whole weekend figuring out how to turn a drab hand job into a fab hand job (as I was recently taught this week) by using a lil’ lube, “baby oil or something”.
Way to go, champ.
As for me, I’m stressed, and I’m sweaty, and I can’t find my problem set nor have I figured out how to balance my cup of non-fat granola mixed in with my non-fat yogurt along with my non-fat life. I’m clutching my cell phone hoping it will ring and THE PHONE CALL will come as I’m doing this sort of awkward run-walk-skip-trip because I’m one of only five morons on this campus who wears heels when I’m clearly aware that I have 4 miles and three and a half minutes between classes.
You all know the phone call I’m talking about. The post-hookup phone call. The one that comes three days after you hooked up. Or at least, it’s supposed to come three days afterward. Not one, that’s too desperate, and not a week after, because that’s far too late, but is two days OK? How about four?
This means, that if you met at Toad’s on a Saturday, your phone should ring somewhere around 10 or 11 p.m. on Tuesday. Or if it was at SAE late-night on Thursday (where your shoes were ruined by the delightful weekend entree of beer with a side of mud in a lovely vomit sauce) your phone call should come on Sunday afternoon, preferably after brunch, where you sat for an hour and a half discussing whether the phone call was actually going to come, and if it did, were you going to do the coy and cute flirty voice, or were you instead going to be cool and aloof and “very busy, can’t really talk, but will call you later.”
Monday morning screws this whole process up because when you’re running up to macro (on Hillhouse) from history in LC (not so much close to Hillhouse), you make eye contact with that person. THAT person from THIS weekend, who’s seen you NAKED and who’s supposed to make the phone call. There’s a “Hey,” followed by a “S’up,” to which you respond, “I’m good,” then you realize that’s an answer to a question they didn’t ask, so you say, “I mean, nothing.” Then there is an awkward pause that lasts approximately 75 minutes, and then you walk away quietly. Great.
That encounter is always the most terrible one. You both walk away wondering what the other is thinking, and what’s going to happen with the phone call now? Who’s supposed to do it? And why did they look so much better in the dimly lit Toad’s coat check room after six beers?
Six beers do wear off. Eventually.
Once again, we’re back to the phone call. Will it come (let’s hope as quickly as he did)? And what’s it going to be?
There are several types:
The obligatory phone call — You don’t really like the other person. You regret that you’ve seen his or her body after 3 months of not going to the gym and 2 rounds of the freshman 15. Really, you just want to get it over with. You’d rather be on the phone with your grandmother. With the flower lady. Anyone. There’s chitchat, it’s uncomfortable, and when you hang up, you both realize there’s no hope.
Then there’s the I’m-A-Little-Too-Happy-To-Call call — This one comes a little early. Why? Because that guy hasn’t gotten ass in 6 months, and he’s really excited that you came through in the clutch. Then again, he really could like you. We all know what beautiful, lifelong relationships develop from a romantic encounter at Zeta Psi.
There’s the Maybe-If-I–Call–Right–Now-You’ll-Come-Over-And-Get-Naked-With-Me-Again call (MIICRNYCOAGNWMA for short) — This person is really optimistic. It’s 11:30 on a Wednesday, he or she doesn’t have any work, and you need to write a 12-page paper about the pottery of ancient southwest Eritrea. No one is coming over. No one is getting naked. Thanks for playing.
There is of course, the slight variation on the MIICRNYCOAGNWMA call, which is the You-Give-Really-Good-Hand-Jobs-Let’s-See-What-You-Can-Do-With-Your-Mouth call (you used the baby oil, yeah you did.) — This one means that he’s really interested in getting to know you — next weekend. You had so much in common!
Finally, there’s the No-Call call. This means they don’t call. Let’s be honest, this is rude. OK, kind of rude depending on how either party looked Monday. But regardless, I have to say that no matter what kind of call it is, it’s better than no call. No call sucks, and there’s no reason for it. You don’t even have to dial more than 5 numbers if you’re calling from on campus. There’s a blue phone everywhere. This college is TELLING you to call. After all, maybe her roommate will pick up, and she’s cute —
Natalie Krinsky — helping you turn a drab hand job into a fab hand job.