My Days with the Cute, Sweatshirt Wearing Girl.

She was sitting on a padded bench outside the classroom when I first saw her. One of her legs was folded up under her, and she was wearing khaki shorts and sweatshirt with G***** (a small midwestern college) printed across the front. Her head was down, peering intently into a large textbook in her lap, oblivious to the crowd of students around her. Despite the fact she was reading the textbook on the first day of classes in our first year of law school, I was intrigued. Somehow sensing that, or, as I like to think, somehow sensing my stunning good looks and charm, she looked up.
At this point, I could spout cliches, and tell you how her sandy-blond hair created a halo around the face of an angel. Or I could tell you how she moved with the grace (and apparent hunger) of a jungle cat, as she moved her leg from under her, to put it on the floor. But those wouldn’t do justice to her beauty and grace. When the fog lifted, I saw her staring at me with her right eyebrow lifted as if to ask “May I help you?” Caught red handed, (or red eyed), I fumbled:

“I guess you went to G*****”

Pretty outstanding, isn’t it? Incredibly suave and debonair way of meeting and impressing women. It was but a small step up from falling to the ground and drooling on myself.

“Yes. And you went to M*****?”

I stupidly looked down at my own sweatshirt, emblazoned with the identity of my Alma Mater.

“Yep, but I almost went to G******.”

In that little snippet, you can witness the extent of my coolness and glaring intelligence. I was amazed that she didn’t just throw herself at me and beg me to take her away with me, what with me being so smooth and sophisticated. Luckily, I was saved from further embarrasment, which may have included me saying “You shure got a purty mouth,” when one of her new friends came up and they went together into the same classroom I was going into. You never get a second chance to make a first impression. Maybe next time, I’ll just knock her on the head and drag her back to my cave. At least that would have had some dignity to it.

Next time, try, “Yep, I went to M*****, but I heard that girls who went to G***** were easy.”

Heh. You don’t know this guy, do ya? :wink:

Yeah, but my story has the added benefit of being true.

Days. We were promised days.

Hey, I bet you are talking about Grinnell!

Hope I didn’t expose your identity.

Why is your thread entitled, “My DAYS . . .”, it seems like it should have been entitled, “Twenty Seconds with . . .”

It’s weird how “special” a girl is when you are smitten with them. I always get it into my head that the girl I want is absolutely perfect! Even their flaws are perfect. Then, after the relationship or at least the attempt at one has crashed and burned and I’ve had time to lose any sort of emotional baggage, I’ll run into that girl again and think “Uh, what was I thinking? She’s cute, but not nearly as great as I thought she was.” Happened to me this last weekend at a wedding. It felt good; I guess it was closure.

But I love the phenomenon of infatuation. At it’s peak it is exstacy (assuming its mutual) and when it’s gone it can be devastating. But when it’s first getting started . . . oh, so nice . . .

One guy here told about his scintillating conversation during a smitten first encounter. He and some hottie were flirting at his bookstore and she asked if she could “come by and see him sometime?”

He replied “Sure, as long as you don’t shit in my yard.”
I’d have to say Hamlet that upon comparison, you did quite well.

Now why do you suppose that lieu would remember that story? :slight_smile:

ya beat the pyjamas off me porcupine. The title had me thinking the same thing.

Hamlet. At least you said something. I have lived the past 15 years wishing I had mumbled something. anything. To one sweet Ms. Barnea. The gut wrenching fear involved in a few moments of stammering is better than decades of kicking oneself in the backside.I’ve moved on, I’m married now, with kid. But I still often wonder how she has fared in life

My first thought too. But the asterisks don’t add up.

Hey, Hamlet, talk to her tomorrow too and be sure to tell us how it goes.

Right now, maybe on some other board, she’s posting about the cute guy who was the only new person to talk to her today or looking over her wardrobe to find another shirt with a word on it. Or maybe a picture of a kitten, because whether or not you like animals is important.
Talk to her again, Hamlet, it’s unlikely to get worse and will probably get better.

Hamlet, I am going to have to take back that whole “eloquent” thing if you don’t correct the situation. Obviously you do better in a written format.

Maybe something along the lines of, “jeez, my brain really cramped up yesterday. I can’t believe how lame I must have sounded. My name is H****”

After class, I got a chance to talk to our mutual friend, and found out that sweatshirt girl was going to be at the party the social fraternity was hosting that night. Free pizza, free beer. I had another chance to impress her with my wit and intelligence. Another chance I figured I’d blow.

The party started at 6:00 p.m, but I was going to go over at 6:30 p.m with some friends. Sweatshirt girl was going to be there at 7:00 (not that I checked or anything). I spent the early evening showering, putting on cologne (hey, if you want to be sophisticated, you need to smell sophisticated), and working on my conversation skills by talking to my mirror while shaving. Not the best way to hold a conversation, by the way, nor the best way to shave. I ended up with nothing to say and a bloody nick on my chin. Eventually, though, I made it to the party, and had a couple pieces of pizza and a couple beers. I was standing around talking with some other first years, including sweatshirt girl’s friend. They were the kinds of conversations that you have with people you don’t really know, but will have to spend 3 years in hell with, so it’s best to have friends. “Where are you from?”, “How do you like Professor Skippy?”, you know the drill. However, during these conversations, my eyes kept wandering to the door, checking for sweatshirt girl’s arrival, knowing I would make a better impression this time…

At one point during our conversations, we were discussing our current relationship status and how law school would effect the same. For the record, I was single, after coming off my first major relationship in college about 6 months before. Most everyone there were either married, or involved in a serious relationship. Then, sweatshirt girl came in, scanned the crowd, and made her way to our little group. Introductions were made, and I finally learned the name of sweatshirt girl: Lou. Please try and get the picture of Ed Asner in a white, short sleeve shirt with a tie, yelling at Mary Tyler Moore out of your head, and picture Elizabeth Shue instead. And the Elizabeth Shue from Adventures in Babysitting not Leaving Las Vegas.

After the introductions were done, there was a gap in conversation, which, being the social genius I am, I felt the need to fill it. Some people would recommend that I compliment her, to break the ice. Others may think that it would be better to play it calmly, you don’t want to chase her away after all. Still others would want me to be mysterious and not address her right away. All of these are valid, intelligent responses, which, of course, I did not do. Instead, I said “I suppose you are seeing someone seriously too.” In my defense, it wasn’t as horribly pathetic as it sounds. We were all discussing relationships before Lou had arrived, and, it could be argued, this was an attempt at bringing a newcomer into a conversation. Unfortunately, she did not see it that way, and, if I could have read her mind, it would’ve been saying “Note to self: Get restraining order against this freak.” She quickly replied, “Yes, I am,” and turned away.

I could tell you that my heart sank, and the rest of the night was a dark, depressing time. I could tell you that I fled the bar in fear of having anybody see my tears. I could tell you she was wearing see-through pajama bottoms and was unaware of her sexual energy, but all of those would be lies. It was disappointing, sure, but not earth shattering. And I enjoyed the rest of the evening, even talking to sweatshirt girl a couple more times, much more successfully I might add. Sure, she wouldn’t be my SO, but I had a nice evening anyway. And that’s what counts. Right? Right?


So does she have Cute Pyjama Pants?

Wow, I’m sorry, but that was a pathertic story. What were you thinking! If you want to get her, you have to be a dick to her. That’s how it works these days.

You got too worked up over nothing. You can never expect these things to work out, because look! It ruined your whole night! From now on, approach any and every girl that is cute, and your awkward pickup lines will gradually improve. Picking up women is a skill that can be learned, and the only way to learn is practice.

Good luck, and may the force be with you.

Over the next couple of months, a strange thing began to happen. Sweatshirt girl went from the woman of my dreams, to a really good friend. It ended up she was in many of my classes, and we would hang out with our other friends most every weekend. I quit seeing her as an object to be infatuated with and possessed, and got to know her as the incredibly funny, down-to-earth, extremely intelligent woman she was. And I quickly learned that referring to her as a “girl” would earn me a swift kick in the ass, because she was a WOMAN. An extremely wonderful woman.

Every Friday, after our last class together, we’d head to a local bar, grab a booth, talk, read, and wait for our friends. We’d talk about everything under the sun, from college, to families, to current events. And after each conversation, I found myself learning to appreaciate her more and more. Even if we were too sick of talking, we’d waste time just reading in the same booth drinking coffee or beer. And, my Og!, could she read. Law books were strictly forbidden, so she would show up with a book and, it seemed, just consume it, reading voraciously, and occasionally talking about whatever she was reading. We gave each other book recommendations, and she finished “Hamlet” (go figure) in two readings, while it took me a month to get through “Mists of Avalon,” her favorite book. We’d have about an hour to read and talk and drink, and our other friends would drift in and join the festivities. Occasionally, she would miss a Friday to leave the city and go visit her boyfriend, who was 13 hours by car away. There would be a slight twinge of jealousy on my part, but mostly because that bastard was taking up my time with her. And occasionally, I would have a date or something else going on, which, if revealed to Lou, would get me no end of mockery, but in a kind, big sister kind of way.

We were Friends. We were on our way to becoming very good friends. I could live with that.

Oh, I didn’t realize that this was coming in installments. Sorry, dude . . . kind of lame.

Let me guess. . . “sweat shirt girl” eventually breaks up with her boyfriend, decides that she wants you (and I’m sure there’s some witty story behind it) and now you are married.


How long ago did this happen?
You married this girl, didn’t you!

Wasn’t this an episode of “Good Morning Miami?”