It was no longer a way of achieving prestige; it was serious business. Men needed wives for career success, to escort to office parties and demonstrate their "family man" stability. Women needed husbands to finance their club activities and to give them children. And we had to seal the deal before graduation.
So every conversation with peers, parents, and professors involved "what girl are you interested in?", and every Tuesday night brought a flurry of phone calls as boys asked girls for weekend dates, with the subtext: "I want to evaluate you as a potential wife."
I had figured "it" out just after my high school graduation, and had a live-in boyfriend during my sophomore year, but, still, I was in no way excused. I heard a constant "What girl do you like?", and every Tuesday night, "What girl will you call?"
I didn't want to date any girl, but I really had no choice. You did not come out to anyone in small-town Illinois in the 1980s, ever.
Unfortunately, girls were evaluated solely on their physical attractiveness. I knew a few basic rules: fat or short hair should elicit "Ugh! Gross!", and slim with long hair "Wow, she's hot!" Blonde should garner more enthusiasm than other hair colors. But I simply could not distinguish between, say, the attractiveness of Barbara and Julie on One Day at a Time, or Sabrina and Kelly on Charlie's Angels.
Boys at Augustana were evaluated on the basis of their future wealth, power, and prestige.
4 to 6: Practical majors, like social work or psychology, which would lead to good, stable jobs. Dateable if no gold mine majors or fratboys had asked you out for several weeks in a row.
1 to 3: Head case majors, fit only for lunatics who wanted to starve to death, like English and history. Dateable if no one higher up had asked you out for several months in a row.
You could move up for one or more of: a car, an off-campus apartment, disco skill, a wild--and-crazy personality, an arrest record, a Robert Redford smile, a Sylvester Stallone physique, an awe-inspiring penis, or if you were Jewish (I don't know why).But you would move down for one or more of: a part-time job, an interest in science fiction or fantasy, goody-goody morals, a clock-stopping face, a shy-and-quiet personality, a fat belly, facial hair, glasses, or a "Danish dick" (pipsqueak-sized).
And during your senior year, when you were getting desperate, everyone moved up a level.
I was majoring in English (head case) and Modern Languages (practical), I had a part-time job, an interest in science fiction, and goody-goody morals (I didn't drink or use drugs), but also a car, a physique, and a penis. So I figured that I was a #5.
One day a female friend pointed out a boy who rated #10: Sandy, who I knew from my Renaissance history class.
Wait -- he was a history major (head case), tall and hulking, with black hair, a nondescript face, and a nondescript physique. A little belly. Wearing glasses. He should be down around #1, undatable. What pushed him up to #10?
She wouldn't tell me.
So I asked Sandy to "hang out" and did some sleuthing.
I had to pick him up at the dorm.
No car. No apartment.
We got pizza at Alfano's, where getting him to talk was like pulling teeth.
No wild-and-crazy personality.
Then he insisted that we go to the Cave to "look for girls." I hated dancing and "looking for girls," but I agreed.
No John Travolta disco moves.
A bad boy with an arrest record?
No.
He got a little tipsy -- ok, a lot tipsy -- which put him around #1 in my book (I hate drunks)!Our quest "to meet girls" proved fruitless, so he asked me to take him home. I had to actually help him up to his dorm room!
I hate drunks, but this might prove fruitful. I might get a blow job out of it, or at least a grope.
I helped Sandy undress and lie down on bed. When I moved to climb into bed with him, he brushed me away. But I managed to slide down his underwear and take a peek before leaving.
Enormous! A fire hose. A Swedish salami. Big enough to push him up from #1 to #10.
And Jewish.
