Saturday night on a Craven Quad window seat: Between sips of Smirnoff, the three of us play I.B.E. (otherwise known as I'd-Bang-'Em), a party game that goes back to the halls of Aycock.
"The one on the left," giggles the girl to my right, pointing at a shaggy kid in a shabby hat. "Looks like a rock star. I'd bang him." I scan the room before seeing the object of my affection, sadly pictured only on the wall. "John Cusack," I sigh, nudging a Say Anything poster. "I'd bang him. I'd marry him, too." After a long pause, the third party speaks. "There's my crush," she whispers, pointing to a guy in the corner. "I'd bang him." She buries her face in the sleeves of her hoodie and sighs.
I hand her my bottle. "Go!" I command. "Offer him a drink and start talking!"
"Look," she says, "I'd totally bang him. But he'd never go for me."
I nod; yes, he would - this girl is one of the most beautiful people around.
"Please," she snaps. "Look at him. Tall. Hot. Wearing Lacoste. He's one of those high maintenance guys with boarding school sweats and more bath products than me."
"You don't know him," I protest. "He could be cool."
"He looks like a snob." She said. "And I don't. He's out of my league."
The next morning, I dragged myself out of bed and dragged out my dictionary. Just as I thought, there are only two places where the word "league" can be used: measuring sea depth or dividing sports teams. And even if the purpose of some dates is to score, the word "league" just doesn't apply to people. Saying someone is out of yours - especially before you talk to them - is basically saying they're too good for you. And that's pretty sad.
"But wait," cautions a California girl late one night. "There are people you would never date, because they're not up to your standards." It's true; there are those who just aren't romance material. But deep down, it's not always about looks. Well...not totally.
"I'll second that," laughs my study buddy. We've bailed on our homework to drink Bailey's, and she's describing her new crush. "He's not my type - too short, too shaggy - but every time he smiles, it's like the sun seriously comes up. Now all I want to do is pull him into my room and lock the door."
And there's another reason why the league theory is a little far out: it depends on perception. "Totally," agrees a senior cutie one night. "You're always going to find something wrong, with yourself or someone else. But you've got to be your own cheerleader. Hell," she grins, "I'm not the prettiest girl at this school. But I'm hot!" We both laugh, but I know she's right. Her attitude is part of what makes her so appealing, and when we go out, she makes heads swivel. "The only league I've got," she says as I swish her in Stila All Over Shimmer, "Is the one where I choose the players."
My latest heart-thumper was the guy who made me laugh until I couldn't breathe. I never thought he was a hottie, but lately he's never looked better to me. And as for the crushed, crushing girl at the Craven party, she finally caved and talked to the guy at Alpine the next day.
"So," I asked, "Is he in your league?" Her cheeks turned daquiri pink. "Well," she smiled, "We've ran a few bases together. So yeah, I guess so."
And with that, she reapplied her lipgloss, headed out the door and got ready to play again.
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