Saturday night. 10:48 PM. You’ve pregamed with your gals, decided to take that one extra tequila shot that put you a bit over the edge. You’re looking, but more importantly feeling “fire” in that tight black Urban top you binge ordered online. The night is young and ripe with opportunities for romance.
You make your way down the row into that second frat house of the night. It is dark, just light enough to see the silhouettes of girls dancing on platforms and clusters of people at the bar. The melodic thumping of Mike Posner’s, “I took a pill in Ibiza” fills the outside terrace as you watch people chug bagged blue wine like they haven’t seen a liquid in years: this is the college picture of party, of possible young romance.
After warding off a couple of odd hipsters and a couple more wildly loud pledges, you bump into *Jared, a tall junior with longer hair and puzzling hazel eyes. Not too pretentiously artsy, not too obnoxiously fratty, just right.
It’s not long before you’re standing in the corner of the party, whispering cute comments and passing hilarious judgments on other partygoers. It all flows so perfectly. Sparks are transmitted when his hand touches your waste and you feel his warm breath against your ear.
You kiss that first time. And then you kiss again.
It’s all very “modern romance” as he swoops you off of the make-shift dance floor and up to his fraternity bedroom as you share that $4 bottle of Sutter Home wine and pray to God his roommate doesn’t come in, the dimmed lights a promising touch.
But in the light of the morning somehow everything looks different.
Jared’s eyes are less of a mysterious hazel and more of a boring brown. Anonymous roommate couldn’t even make it to his bed and is passed out on a navy beanbag inches below you and as you quietly tiptoe downstairs, the terrace party scene is littered with red solo cups and you swear you can spot a small puddle of what would be classified as vomit by the “DJ booth.”
As you contemplate the not so romantic scene before you and your head thumps to its own beat, you blame that extra shot of tequila that made you interchange the L words yet again – Love and Lust.
^ This is the plight of every college girl at some point in her career.
How come Love and Lust so often get confused in youth?
On the one hand our generation has perfected the art of separating the physical and the emotional. We are the creators of the “chill wars”, the champions in the games of not texting back, of sneaking out in the morning, of pretending it “was just a short thing”, “I was never that into her”, “just a party hook up”, “didn’t mean anything to me.”
We strip layers of our clothing like it’s nothing – that tight black urban top here, a new black leather skirt there, but when it comes to stripping layers of our hearts, we are amateurs.
Yet there is no doubt that we crave something more real and still search for love around every corner, through every window, have an inkling of hope as we walk into each bar, each frat house, get all dressed up for the next invite, exchange, first date.
It seems as if everything is a “half thing” – resting in that blurry space between Love and Lust. We don’t just leave it as a one-night-stand because we want the real deal.
So you and Jared end up having sleepovers every weekend for a couple of months. You share music and meals and alcohol and are constantly texting back and forth.
But you still aren’t allowed to care. You can’t admit you want the real deal. You still can’t be the last one to text, the first one to call. You can’t overstay your welcome or simply ask if this is special, if this is different? … Because what if it’s not.
All we do is pretend we don’t care so we don’t get hurt, but when we stifle our truest feelings is when we end up the most hurt.
So we settle somewhere between Love and Lust, ending up with neither. With our new black Urban outfitters outfit still fully in tact, but the first layer of our heart tearing, a bit cracked.
Maybe it’s the contained college environment and that 18-22 year old bubble where you’re not supposed to care. And what can we do?
Maybe we start with breaking out of that blurry space between Love and Lust by breaking all of the “rules” – by being the first to text, to call, by saying what’s up, what we feel, by being there for someone when they need us, because isn’t that what Love (capital L) really is at the end of the day?
Sarah Kay, a modern spoken word poet said,
“Love is like finding the ocean after years of puddle jumping.”
So know that Lust (capital L), the random hook-ups, the “half things”, all of the Jareds in the world are simply puddle jumping.
And when you’re ready to start peeling layers of your heart, the ocean will be there – deep and everlasting – waiting for you.