Valerie Pavilonis

Yale men are trash.

Yale men are trash.

Yale men are trash.

Yale men are trash, true. But are Yale women really that much different?

Taking 5.5 credits, leading four different high-commitment clubs and probably on track to her fourth Goldman internship, the Yale Woman lives on overpriced Blue State three-shot-almond-milk cappuccinos and regular trips to Sushi on Chapel.

Strutting down college street in slightly heeled boots, the Yale woman carries a “New Yorker” tote. A subtle flex, one might say. She reads! She’s cultured! She’s better than you! It’s funny though, seeing the bits of paper and stationery flying out — especially the bruised day-old pear (her go-to study snack) staining the corner of her flimsy canvas bag. She’s one of those who can eat whatever they please and never gain weight, the ones who have never touched a single skincare product but still manage to have perfectly clear skin. Her aura of superiority isn’t exactly intentional, though. She doesn’t want to make you feel inferior, she just wants to be her best self.

Much like the rest of Yale’s affection-deprived community, she complains about how it’s been a whole semester and she still hasn’t been cuffed yet. But is it because there are no shots to be shot or because of the intense fear of commitment she just won’t admit to? It’s not like she doesn’t have “prospects.” Everyone asks to set her up with their suitemate for screw. But she likes to “keep her options open,” maybe even sift through Yale Facebook to make a spreadsheet on “attractive prospects” and “whether they look single.” At the end of the day, when it’s too late, you find her stressed and a little depressed, crying over her lack of a hot date for formal. She keeps her walls up — God forbid she gets dumped during exams. What would she do about her 4.0 GPA then? Crying over an ex-boyfriend takes up too much time, she says, as she GCals her 5-minute cat naps between lectures. It’s not high maintenance, it’s just efficient time management.

It’s 11:43. Shit. Two more minutes until I have to leave for Bass.

She sighs under her breath, packs up the five books she has supposedly read (or displays in libraries for the clout), heads down to the basement of Bass from Starr, sets her belongings aside and touches up her makeup. After all, it is Wednesday night. She’ll go for a responsible 45 minutes. Being a Woads Scholar doesn’t help boost her resume, but she has to make an appearance, at least leave the impression that she’s somewhat sociable. It’s been months since the start of freshman year, and not once has she missed the opportunity to pay $5 for an hour and half of sweaty encounters and deafening renditions of Mo Bamba. She’s never skipped lecture, why would she ever skip Woads?

The Yale Woman gives off more BDE than most of the heavyweight crew team. Only she can ask the TA sitting next to her in the front row of chem for help on Spanish homework, do her readings while running her daily two miles in the gym and show up 40 minutes late to a two-hour final only to finish before anyone else in the room. She’s the kind to audit SOM classes for the connections, the kind of person to shake your hand horizontally when she meets you, with her hand on top — you know, to assert dominance. Speak up when you see her, she can’t hear you over her brand new airpods.

Somehow everyone knows her. The slight mention of her name turns heads and starts conversations. Everyone has an opinion about her. Does this make her controversial? Maybe it’s her social media presence. She’s so … PRESENT. Every day is a day-in-the-life-of-a-Yale-student vlog on her Instagram story, all 263 seconds of it. Whether it be the newest addition to the dining hall froyo machine or a rare sighting of our beloved Handsome Dan, check her story — it’s there. The Yale Woman is above sliding into Instagram DMs. Instead, she leaves puzzles in your comments section — adding to her aura of mystery.

Love ya! Heart emoji. Kissy emoji. Dancing girl emoji. Unicorn emoji. Rainbow Emoji.

Take your pick. Of all existing 2,823 emojis, she manages to find a combination that simultaneously means everything and nothing. A silent nudge for you to comment on her most recent Instagram picture. That’s right, the one of her most recent #brunchtrip with her #galpals at Atticus because #sundaysareforlovers. You scroll through her profile. 600 likes and 87 comments.

Babe. Absolute Babe. Heart eye emoji. Crying emoji.

Ah, your fellow fallen soldiers.

You want to hate her, but you know you can’t. I know, it’s frustrating. Because not only is she the friendliest, kindest, most down-to-earth person you’ve ever met, she also manages to make time for you. She listens to your problems, bitches about section assholes with you and shows up to your doorstep with Insomnia Cookies at 3 in the morning to cheer you up on your late nights.

Don’t get me wrong. Yale women are great. They’re powerful, independent, driven individuals. At the end of the day, if you’re not losing sleep over the 0.03 percent you got taken off your Econ p-set, crying about your lack of a love life and binge-drinking soy matcha lattes from Koffee to satisfy both a craving and an intense feeling of unfulfillment — do you even go to Yale?

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