This is an archived awkward adventure in two parts. I just got way too wordy, so I decided to Kill Bill-style it. Enjoy.
“Hi. Do you mind if I sit here?” Folks, if you’re scared to talk to someone because they’re intimidatingly hot, but there are places to sit nearby, this probably the easiest possible way to get your ass planted within a 10 foot radius of your object of affection. But, generally, the awkward silence that immediately follows pretty much kills the entire mood like a big cup of mood-hemlock.
That’s why I recommend being a total rock star. That way, there won’t be any awkward silences.
“No, go ahead.” Her big, dark eyes flash at me with recognition. “Wait, were you the guy who caught a frisbee amazingly just a bit ago?”
I mean, whatever. That kind of thing happens all the time, when you’re an ultra athletic rock star like me. “Sure. That was me.” Like I care.
Okay, before I get too full of myself, we need to set the scene. It is the fall of my last year in college. I’ve just finished playing a game of ultimate frisbee. It’s late afternoon. I’ve decided that I needed to sit down on a bench, partly because I’m ridiculously tired, but also because a spectacularly hot girl was sitting on the bench too, and I figured, you know, if that bench is good enough for her, well then it’s good enough for me.
Yes, I had been amazing directly in front of her earlier. Generally I’m a tangled mess of spastic elbows and arms, but for some reason ultimate frisbee brings out the only gracefulness I have in my entire life. So when a horribly overthrown disc appeared to be going out of the back of the end zone a few feet ahead of me, I didn’t even hesitate before launching myself horizontally, snagging the frisbee, and dragging one foot behind me for the touchdown in bounds. Getting up, I caught this girl’s eye. She was stunning. Sure, I’m going to sit on that bench.
So: fast forward to sitting next to her, probably smelling funny. I turned to look at her, then asked: “What are you reading?” This never fails. In the history of modern flirtation, asking a girl what she is reading never backfires, even though it seems like a horribly intrusive and rude thing to do. It makes no sense to me, but if the set of all things that worked were limited to the set of all things that made sense, none of us would get laid.
“Oh, it’s just some reading I have to do for an engineering class.”
Hot girl engineers? Sure. I went to a college full of nerdiness, so, chances are, pretty much every girl you meet is going to be ridiculously smart in a way that might not necessarily be traditionally associated with femininity. It’s just statistics, and plus, what is typically associated with femininity is stupid. I’ll tell you what’s hot: dendrimers, titration, and vector fields.
So naturally I have to ask the girl what she majored in. Hush. Which kind of engineer she is could change everything. But, my goodness. The girl and I just met. We needed to get to know each other much better before we start learning about each other’s curricula. So, I started asking questions. I was witty and interested, and she was charming and interesting. Everything was going fabulously.
At this point, I do not have her phone number.
But, just as I was about to take the relationship to the next level and ask her what she majored in, a spectacularly lucky reason to ignore Hot Bench Engineer just happened to present itself.
What reason could I possibly have for ignoring a cute engineering student who I had conned into thinking I was athletic? In what way is this lucky? Is this story going to start getting awkward anytime soon? Now, that’s just a ridiculous question. But for the answer to all of the remaining questions, continue on to the thrilling conclusion of “The Mystery of the Hot Girl’s Major.”