There was a time long ago when two people interested in each other planned an event together. This event involved visual entertainment (in the form of a movie or play), bodily nourishment (such as a nice dinner), intimate contact (i.e. hand-holding or hugging) and then either a set plan to rendezvous again or peaceable handshake goodbye. I believe this event was called a “date.” Unfortunately for some of us, this concept has gone the way of chivalry and the dinosaur. In its place is the concept of hooking up. For those of you living under a rock or in a nunnery, let me describe the course of the night when two people hook-up.
The hook-up usually starts at a party (bypassing the movie and dinner stage). The bodily nourishment usually takes the form of a cheap screwdriver or a foamy beer and the intimate contact is of the inappropriate fondling kind. After being bathed in saliva, one person offers up his or her locale as an alternative to continuing relations on a ratty couch in a decrepit venue. The two people go home, have a nice “meeting of the bodies,” and one person leaves the next morning, rumpled clothing and all. There will be tentative plans to meet again, done by uttering the most insincere phrase in our repertoire: “I’ll see you around.” Needless to say, these plans are never kept—or perhaps they are when these people run into each other weeks later at another party. Depending on the level of inebriation, either awkwardness ensues or pants will be unzipped.
Now I wouldn’t necessarily have a problem with this new state of romantic affairs—but I find myself uncomfortable with being exploited without any true intimacy. Is it too much to ask for some dinner, or at least a light snack? I’m not asking for a lifetime commitment or a ten-course meal; we could just share a Rice Krispies treat in a well-lit area (key words: well-lit area). But you don’t want such frivolities as decent lighting and probing conversation. Deep down, everyone just wants a good laugh and a good screw. And if delivered adroitly, a cheap pick-up line takes care of two birds with one stone.
Yes, dating is an antiquated practice, but it can be cool. Aside from the fact that I’d have to finance the whole thing (being a chivalrous guy and all), dating has some serious pluses. For one thing, it saves on condoms. For another, you don’t have to pull the rushed clean-up job. You know what I’m talking about—Saturday rolls around the corner and you start throwing all your crap in desk drawers and hosing down the room with Lysol in case “company” comes by. A date does not have to end in sex; hence, your room can remain full of half-eaten sandwiches and balled-up socks. You can be a complete slob and no one would know (except your housemates, but you’re not trying to sleep with them). An invitation to your room can be stalled indefinitely, until you can find the time to organize your room—or hire a friend to do it for you.
Clearly these pluses get lost in the shuffle. The overarching truth is this: nobody wants to date. And to be fair, there are reasons. The date does not guarantee sex; the hook-up almost always does. The date is like a plant you have to grow and nurture; the hook-up is like a blow-up doll you can play with and deflate at your leisure. The date allows you to get to know a person; the hook-up keeps a person comfortably anonymous, letting you to function as a normal human being. Hooking up doesn’t require an undressing of your emotional self—which in my case is pretty out of shape, and in need of a good wax.
Don’t misunderstand me; I’m okay with the hook-up. It’s efficient, expedient ,and yields good story material. Sure it also leads to doing an extra load of laundry (shame on those of you who don’t wash your sheets!) but you were probably running out of underwear anyway. I think the hook-up speaks to our cowardice as a species (specifically studentus wesleianus). Here we are, in the prime of our lives with decades ahead of us, and yet we neither have the patience to pursue long-term goals nor the mettle to deal with heartache. Everybody wants somebody; nobody wants to get hurt. There has to be a shortcut—a quick and easy way to assess someone’s value with minimal risk.
Hence, casual canoodling. People don’t attend parties to have fun; they come with goals of sexual conquest, armed to the teeth with one-liners and flasks. Who’s looking for betrothal?—people want someone to sidle next to them, someone to remind them of the fact that they have genitals. And the less commitment the better. Why suffer a terminal break-up or endure a boring relationship that’ll suck up your youthful days? Settling down happens at thirty; sampling the sexual buffet occurs now. It’s no wonder that in the dictionary promiscuity comes before promise.
Considering all this, daters are having the worst week ever, though it’s more like the worst year ever. Why do we hate on the date? Is it because it’s hard to plan, or is it the fact that it’s a smart idea? Because as we all know, what’s the point of seeing someone in the daytime and having a decent conversation with them, when you can down five tequila shots and blame alcohol for your poor decisions? Who knows? It’s impossible to say. I’m just trying to give you food for thought. I’m not picking up the check for this not-so-intellectual meal though, I’m not that chivalrous.
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