If I had a nickel for every time I overheard, “So can I find you on Facebook?” I’d have enough money to pay for five years of an eHarmony account. Call me old-fashioned, but I never expected to exist in a world so depersonalized that engagements could be broken up over text messages.
When it comes down to it, it’s all Cinderella’s fault; if she’d never lost the glass slipper off her foot, she never would’ve had that stud search region-wide to track her down only to live happily ever after. After watching this utterly unrealistic depiction of how love is found, girls create this fantasy world in which prince charming is not only out there somewhere, but accessible. This hope is promptly shattered after the appearance of a girl’s first pimple in middle school and the douchebag “football stars” of high school hit their peak.
Of course college will be better, right? Talk about a rude awakening. The worst part is Facebook has managed to supply an outlet for boys to be even less than subpar the minute that Zuckerberg guy launched it. They can now see any and all personal information about you just by looking through your profile pictures... who you hang out with, what you wear, who your ex’s are, and worst of all, how you looked before you realized that untagging unflattering pictures is crucial.
They judge you before they’ve even met you. And once they’ve met you, you can guarantee that nine times out of ten they certainly won’t ask you for your phone number, just your last name so they can be sure to yield a narrow search within your school’s network.
This is not to say there aren’t a few winners out there. An incident occurred last weekend that actually embarrassed the bias out of me (boys get your notepads out because this nifty little trick will put you way ahead of the game and requires minimal effort on your part). I met a guy downtown last weekend through a mutual friend of my roommate’s who I had a more than decent conversation with outside for about half an hour. At the end of the conversation I said, “Well it was just lovely to meet you but I’m sure you don’t remember my name. To be honest, yours has slipped my memory, but maybe I’ll run into you soon.” My face turned redder than a cherry tomato when he responded with, “Nice to meet you too, Jordan.” Oops.
Let’s be real, that never happens. My freshman year I learned not to waste brain power on names of people that I meet downtown because those boys are almost always out for one thing, and one thing only. It’s sad how something so little surprised me, but on a college campus that’s considered a rarity. Horse drawn carriages are a little over the top, but a text message is hardly an all-star effort. Ask a girl for her number, and don’t you dare expect her to make the first effort after you half-ass text her your name.
Girls deserve to be treated like princesses (well, most of them), and although we know Prince Charming looked a little too put-together in that ridiculous 1950’s suit, I don’t think a “stone-age” voicemail is too much to ask.
