I always loved the expression, “Summer Fling”—it’s such a pregnant image for me. I picture women whipping off high heels; I see greasers in tight pants thrashing around a car and splaying Saran wrap over their gyrating crotches; I imagine long luxurious mornings in my underwear popping grapes into my boyfriend’s mouth; and of course I see throngs of pregnant women (it wouldn’t be a pregnant image without them).
I had what could be neatly classified as a Summer Fling this year. I traveled to a distant land (some call it New Mexico, but I call it Mexico of the New Variety), I was dazzled by mountainous desert landscapes, and I wined and dined with a tall, dark, handsome, and mysterious local. All the criteria of Summer Fling had fallen into place.
My mother asked me two questions before I left for New Mexico. One: “Do you decide to date people who are leaving because you know they are leaving?” Two: “Are you going to New Mexico to get back together with your ex-boyfriend?”
So the “tall, dark, handsome, and mysterious local” was actually a former Wes student whom I dated back in the day, a man who’s actually shorter than I am and honestly not that mysterious. Hey, but he’s from NM, so I get one point for local.
The first question was pretty terrifying and deftly illustrates my mother’s tendency to make what should be glaringly obvious, well, obvious. I’d like to think my relationships having “scheduled break up points” was a coincidence, but I’ll admit it: I had some commitment phobia.
As to the second question, I did not have an immediate answer, which made me think that perhaps I was rushing headlong into a romantic relationship and was defying her rhetorical question. And then of course I stepped back and realized that I would be leaving New Mexico for Wesleyan come August. Two checkmarks for the first question.
On the other hand, my relationship with my ex was different from anything I expected. When we had dated at Wes I had been a frosh, a distractible, bold social butterfly with a taste for public nudity, making out, three-hour dinners at MoCon, and intense anxiety when I had spent fewer than eight hours socializing in any given day.
Wesleyan breeds selfishness. How any relationship at this school is expected to function is beyond me. How any two altruists are able to sacrifice even an hour of social time to date is even more difficult question.
Wesleyan is a camp, a summer camp where arts and crafts projects are replaced by essays and reading lists. Instead of prickly macaroni necklaces and campfire ghost stories, we play with GOOSO (Good On One Side Only!) paper and IMP (the recently replaced email server!). When I was with my ex at Wes, we had fun. We dated in a pleasant manner, but I could hardly call myself fully invested. I had friends to play with, art projects to do, email to check, and Eclectic parties to bootyshake at!
And then this summer came along, where I had a real job, a real salary, real financial concerns (thanks Wes FinAid for stepping up and helping me!), and a (gasp) real boyfriend. At summer camp you might meet the parents, but you don’t spend weekends with them; at summer camp you might date someone, but you also have throngs of other campers around to distract you.
The entire notion of a summer fling is vexed and flipped. Wesleyan is summer-y and lively and whimsical.
That is, unless you’re in a serious, “my beaver is your beaver every second of our lives,” relationship. But then you’re not at Wes Camp you’re at Beaver Camp and it’s just the two of you.
Okay, those of you who think I’m being sexual are just disgusting. I’m referring to the metaphor of a dam here, beavers restrict connections through DAMS. People in these kinds of relationships don’t do arts and crafts. They sneak into the woods and make out. They develop emotional attachments, they engage in something “exclusive.” They dam up the whimsy of Wes Camp and live normal human existences!
Wesleyan is where the summer flings happen because there is no real world here. The real world happens during my summers, during many of our summers when we boldly trot the globe. Fling the expression summer fling to the wind because the options are really just WesFlings and Summer Reality.
All I have to say is that in my personal experience I was amazed by the 180 degree turn around in our relationship. Life outside Wesleyan might actually be a place worth living. (I wouldn’t count on it.) And remember, summers come and go, but beavers are forever.
Leave a Reply