Struggling to both monitor the icy sidewalk and let the flickering stars inspire me, it's just another 2 a.m. journey back to Dayton Street alone.
Or so I think.
But all of a sudden, clunky footsteps distract me from my tight, brisk pace.
\Watch out. It's way slippery right there,"" a denim-clad blonde warns.
""Thanks,"" I reply, surprised.
One block later, another solo female stops and asks if she can escort me back to my house.
""I just know how it is out here,"" she explains as her eyes survey the surrounding darkness. ""Sometimes it's nice to have a walk home.""
OK, now I'm stunned.
Did I not get the memo? Do I look like a hot dude? Do these girls secretly want directions to a ""party 'til 6 a.m."" after-bar? 'Cuz I don't have 'em. Do they hope to catch me off guard so they can steal my cute shoes?
Several dozen such questions run through my head before I consider--maybe they didn't want anything from me. Maybe they were just being nice.
After all, each of us had seemingly ""lost"" that night.
In a social system where alone means ""losing"" and ""winning"" means enticing a dude who whisks us away to his place, we had all bombed for the night.
As a lover of competition, it's hard for me to admit this, but I believe the ordeal had something to do with the fact that the night's unspoken competition had ended at closing time. True, maybe I had stumbled upon the two kindest hearts in Madison, but then what explains the bathroom phenomenon?
If you've never experienced the potty phenomenon, you're really missing out. It's the strange reality that girls are more likely to bond with a random person in a tavern bathroom than with any other female all week. In the bathroom, snide remarks turn into compliments, and new friendships blossom every time a toilet flushes.
Just like the road home at 2 a.m., the bathroom is a magically isolated area where competition subsides. Because men are out there, girls have equal access to them... that is to say, none.
But in situations where appealing to men is the goal and other women merely serve as competition, no such bonding occurs. And this means us women rarely get the chance to appreciate a group that constitutes over half the population because we're too worried about how uncool their coolness makes us appear.
What shall we do? Wear big stickers across our chests that read ""Not out for your boyfriend,"" or ""Single, but sweet?"" Or maybe we should take things a step further and appear even more nonthreatening by displaying our most unattractive qualities on our sleeves. A badge that reads ""Beer + me = bad gas,"" or ""sloppy kisser.""
It's a sad and alienating fact that in our ruthless quests for male approval, many girls (me included) deprive themselves of the company of women. In this ridiculous gender game that both men and women perpetuate, men are the prize, and the chance to form a friendship, regardless of gender, a consolation at best.
With magic marker in hand, I think I'm ready to make my statement. For me, a sticker that reads, ""I'd rather come in second.""
ewinter@wisc.edu.
