By Joy Belamairch
Joy: “What about, “Hey! What are your plans for today?”
Joy’s Friend: “That’s too specific.”
Joy: “Ok. How about “Watsup.”
Joy’s Friend: “But with a question mark.
Joy: “Okay. Watsup?”
Joy’s Friend: “Nah. That’s too vague.”
Joy: “I got it. “Hey you. How goes it?”
Joy’s Friend: “Oh! No, I got it. “Hey you! How you feelin’?”
Joy: “Or, “Do you feel as good as you look?”
Joy’s Friend: “But you don’t know how they’re looking.”
Joy: “True. Probably pretty shitty, actually…what about, hey poop face.”
Joy’s Friend: “Yeah. That’s light hearted, but fun.”
Joy: “Okay I’m gonna send it.”
Close your eyes for a second and think back to junior high, when you had a crush on your chemistry partner. One day, you brushed elbows, and it sent shivers down your spine. You had to go to the bathroom to collect yourself. Remember? When you came back, they had written their number on the corner of your notebook with a sloppy little heart. You spent the rest of the period with your eyes glued to the teacher, your face beet red.
Later that day, you practically ran home, and when your mom asked you where the hell you were taking the kitchen phone you squeaked “My room!” Your palms were sweating as you dialed the number. A woman answered with a motherly sing-song voice. “Helloo?” You tried not to choke on your own awkwardness as you said, “Hi, is Sam(antha) there?” And so began your toxic, heart-wrenching eight-day-long relationship.
Ten years later, and you’re lying in bed one Sunday afternoon with a dull headache, staring at your cell phone. The night before was great. You kissed your crush on Clary
Street under a big tree dripping from rain and rounded home base against a brick wall in Bushnell. But now what. Chances are, you’re going to run into that person in .5 seconds when you go to brunch or the library. After all, this is Beloit.
The wait-three-days-rule doesn’t apply here because it can’t. You’ll go two hours and bump into the person in your towel and flip-flops waddling down the hall. So, instead of an awkward first encounter, you decide to text them. Worst-case scenario, they don’t answer, and the next day they ignore you at Java Joint. But who knows. They could have dropped their phone down the toilet while they were playing Snake. Bottom line is, what would our twelve-year-old selves think? (Besides being really proud that you had sex against a brick wall. Woah.) I think they’d say, “Dude, like, go for it.” Let your palms sweat a little. Call them poop face, and see what they do. What have you got to lose?