The Y-Factor is a regular column featuring our writers’ thoughts (humorous and otherwise) on the Yale romantic experience.

It’s your first year at Yale.

You’re forced to live with random strangers and learn basic street-fighting skills to ensure that you survive your nightly trip to G-Heav. None of the street names are familiar, Urban Outfitters slowly drains your bank account, and you cannot possibly find Linsley-Chittenden Hall.

So despite all the turmoil, you decide to experiment with your newfound freedom. You show up at the DKE house at 10 on the dot and are the lucky winner of leers from 500-pound, half-naked guys covered in beer in an otherwise empty house. And though you remember nothing the next morning, you find yourself skipping to brunch, heart beating a little faster. It’s happened. You’ve fallen for a Yale boy. Don’t worry: It happened to me, too.

The night I met Boy No. 1, he was loud and he was drunk. Somehow, we started a semi-coherent conversation and talked for hours in the grass on Old Campus (that is, until some drunk frat guys made us move because they were playing DizzyBat—if you don’t know what DizzyBat is, you’re so not college). He made me laugh, he was cute, and I liked him a lot. It was unbelieveable: Week Two at Yale and we were an item.

I was happy for him when he got tapped for a comedy group, and I was happy for him when he got into a show. But the happiness gradually faded the more time he spent in rehearsal space, until the fuzzy glow was simply no more. One night, a rather emotional conversation about this general lack of happiness ended with him putting on his loafers and leaving in a huff. There was a much more dramatic (and public) ending to all this, involving a huge Days of Our Lives-esque breakup scene in the L-Dub courtyard. And thus, Loafers Boy and I were no more.

Upon careful reflection, I decided that the most damaging and stupid thing to do would be to develop a crush on Loafers Boy’s suitemate. So I developed a crush on Loafers Boy’s suitemate.

Boy No. 2 was quiet, considerate, and kind when he wasn’t passed out on the couch—perfect for nursing my emotional wounds—and I appreciated him quite a bit for that. But just between you and me? I wanted Loafers Boy to miss me. In retrospect, causing tension between him and one of his good friends by being a manipulative boy-hopper was probably not the best way to do that. I finally snapped out of my selfishness and realized that poor Blackout Boy was way too good for me at this stage in my messy life, so I cut him loose and faced my mess.

I felt really sorry for myself for about two weeks, until the night of Halloween. I went as champagne, which made more sense in context, as my friends were various other components of a liquor cabinet. Of course, to get in character, I had to drink a lot of champagne. This method acting led to inebriation, which led to a lot of wild dancing in the Branford dining hall, which led to a really, really uncalled-for, exeedingly gross make-out sesh on said dance floor with a gentleman (Boy No. 3) who wooed me with the poetic line, “So, uh, are these the curves of a champagne bottle or something?”

Prince Charming and I danced the night away in our romantic embrace, and after several people told us to get a room, he asked me to do just that. I did exactly what Cinderella did in that same circumstance: I ran away.

As Vice President (campaigning for the presidency) of the Really, Really, Really Bad Decision Squad, I felt that it was time to get my emotions battered around some more. I decided to select another male to be my partner in crimes against my heart.

Boy No. 4 showed up at my birthday party and wooed me on the dance floor (We Yale girls seem to be susceptible to that.) Engaging and sharp, he seemed like a really fun and interesting person. Upon finally making lip-to-lip contact, he confessed to me that he’d liked me for months, that I was great, and that he’d really like me to check out his room.

Like most three AM room visits, this one didn’t end well. Suffice it to say, Birthday Schmuck avoided me like the H1N1 influenza for days, and I got the hint. I should have expected it: I’ve seen more than once that non-Jewish girls don’t get real relationships out of Jewish boys. We’re the practice fields, the flesh-and-blood blow-up dolls, the Toad’s girls to the Yale football team, and to expect more was foolish.

After realizing that seeking emotional fulfillment at Yale was like herding cats, I settled for a comfortable nighttime companionship with a good friend. I learned a lot from Boy No. 5.

Lesson 1) Friends With Benefits are not boyfriends.

Lesson 2) If he wanted to be your boyfriend, he’d be your boyfriend.

Lesson 3) Don’t try to hold his hand, or get him to say nice things to you.

It felt like He’s Just Not That Into You, Yale version.

Not to say that he wasn’t nice to me; he even told me once that he appreciated me, and that I was quite attractive (his words, not mine). I liked him too much to be a good Friend With Benefits at first, but as I got to know him better we worked out just fine. He was and still is a great friend, and he helped me through some tough times. I can safely say he was my most successful Yale relationship, screwed up as I know that is—it’s the only one I’m not still awkwardly paying for.

So the year ended, as years are wont to do, and I went home, fully expecting summer to suck. About a month in, I began a lovely clichéd summer relationship with a boy from high school. We are both members of the LDR Team, and so far we’re 1 and 0.

I suppose you’re wondering what deep, meaningful message to take from this story of Yale relationships. My advice: Don’t take anyone’s advice. There are very few universal truths in this world, and I’m almost certain that none of them are about boys at Yale.

I could end with some kind of sage message about perseverance and the right one being just around the corner, but let’s face it: New Haven is too cold to wait around LC for the right one to stumble by. Settle for a mammal with relatively good hygiene and enjoy your semester.

 

“MikeYanagitaEdinaMinnesotaCal—”

She asked if I was okay, and, you know, that was a bit weird, so I asked why. She said: “You’re sweating shit tons on your face.” Well, like I said, I was a bit nervous, see, and she may have been right, but either way, geez, either way there was no room for being a sonuvagun. This much I knew. I knew this much.

“Oh.”

She told me that it would be okay: “Chill out, guy,” she said. Jeez, she was pretty good. And then that little grin and the boozer bottle.

Sometimes you can see certain things so clearly, you know? Like Marge Olmstead, you see. It’s not so hard to remember ’cause they were so large. But then you can’t remember other things. Gosh no. You can’t do it no matter how hard you try. Like, I wanted to go to the dance, but she wanted to show me her room. Her room! Jeez. So I went into her room. Oh, boy did I. Afterwards, we went to Toad’s, and, come on, she knew everyone. Then I told her I wanted pizza. I went to go get pizza. “I’m so hungry,” I told her.

And then I wake up and she’s snoring. I thought to myself, oh man, I gotta brush my teeth ’cause my breath smells, see? I get up and look out the window: little flakes floating down. Maybe, you know, we would play some cards, eat something maybe, and I turn to her, and there you go she turns over and throws me my jacket. I took it, see, ’cause I was cold and ’cause she insisted I take it. Then she asked me my name. She’s such a super lady.

A real super lady. I just so lonely.

 

By Tara Tyrrell