In less than 48 hours, the most romantic day of the year will fall upon us.
(This is, by default, of course, because everyone knows Valentine's Day and other traditionally romantic holidays fail to deliver. Plus, Independence Day held that title until an incident a few years ago involving a malfunctioning sparkler, a malfunctioning ex-boyfriend and a scar on my right knee.)
With the malted barley aroma of Guinness wafting through the week and the color of mold and peas all around, I can't help but get in that romantic sort-of mood.
But thinking about romance, of course, leads to confusion and introspection.
In middle school, it was cool to date anyone you could foresee looking decent after puberty.
In high school, it was cool to date anyone with a car.
But in college, the dating pool seems to be waning by the millisecond. As I become more self-aware, an acceptable boy becomes harder to find than a four-leaf clover.
I chalk it up to a flawed ultimate romantic fantasy.
Here's the scenario: We chillin' somewhere with forgiving lighting and my dude of choice pulls me in softly, lowers his eyelids halfway, whispers \come 'ere,"" and I go in for the kiss.
This is the best moment of my life.
It has also never happened, and I think I know why:
1. Only lazy boys tell you to ""come here"" on a first kiss.
This rules out overachievers. It also rules out dudes too shy to speak.
2. Only guys who are comfortable with assertive girls actually let them seal the deal.
This rules out jerks and jocks.
3. The all-important tug by the waist must be soft, yet determined.
A too-fast tug happens when a dude likes a girl too much (gross) and a lax tug results when the guy who likes her too little (damnit). This rules out marriage seekers and trashballs who don't care who they kiss, as long as they get some ass.
To recap: Eyes half-closed, lazy, perceptive, self-assured and adorable.
And then I realize just how self-loathing I really am. Miss Emily, you've eliminated all men but full-on stoners.
This revelation wouldn't be that devastating, possibly kind of cute, if only I weren't the least stoner-friendly girl in Madison. High maintenance, high-strung and practically allergic to incense, tie dye and Phish.
Worst of all-though I've never inhaled-marijuana sets off paranoia in me so strong I become convinced I've had a bladder mishap and spend the next several hours perplexed in the bathroom.
While I know there are dudes who transcend all of these generalized groups, and I don't care if I ever wed or find ""Mr. Perfect,"" I can't bear the prospect that my default list of datables will lead me to a life of cats, buckets of cookie dough ice cream and reruns of ""Maury Povich.""
But in an effort to stay positive, I'll take a lesson from this great holiday, the winner by default. With a dark brew in hand and a nod to the ""Mc"" in my middle name, I'll keep in mind a few ancient Irish philosophies. There are a million ways to cook a potato, and there's no ""fault"" in default.
That is, if you spell it in Gaelic.
ewinter@wisc.edu.
