Op-Ed
I Freaking Love Friendship.
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Awkward Turtle
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Ah, the first week of my last year at Cornell. Let’s spend it conspicuously uncomfortable in places I don’t belong. For starters, let’s become one with nature and the abundance of bathing-suit-slippage at the gorges; then we can develop an inappropriate fascination with the 70-year-old man who plays the water glasses at the Ithaca Farmer’s Market; and let’s top it off by crashing my first ever sorority/fraternity open bar tab at that illustrious, elegant establishment, Dino’s.
In preparation for my first mixer, I did an Olympic-worthy running jump into my skinniest pair of skinny jeans and shimmied my way into an offensively sparkly halter-top from freshman year … of high school. Admittedly, my sex appeal peaked early. I was camouflaged. I was ready.
I was Baby Houseman. I stumbled with wide eyes into an unfamiliar world of sweaty, furious gyration and belted, high-waisted coochie-cutters. But instead of a watermelon, I was cradling the heavy, obtrusive burden of sobriety. I tried to remain polite in the mob-fest, despite being violently humpty-bumped by grinders coming at me from all sides. Feeling remarkably like I had wandered onto the set of a Discovery Channel mating ritual, I mumbled niceties like, “Excuse me,” or, “Oh, no, it was my fault,” or “Psst … you should know, I can see your danger zone.”
On the outside I probably looked like any other friendly giant, using her repertoire of three patented dance moves to side-to-side her way through the chorus of I Kissed a Girl, praying to Buddha, Allah, Jesus, and Madonna to please prevent the lady-grindfest on my right from acting on the inspiring lyrics. But, on the inside, I felt much different. I was the big furry guy in Bugs Bunny cartoons who paints his nails red to feel pretty. And I needed to escape before they busted out the pitchforks.
I made my exit by speaking the secret sorority tongue I had overheard at the Trillium high-tables, consisting solely of acronyms, giggle rainbows, and Fergie lyrics. But I was unpracticed, and the only sentence I could come up with was, “b-t-dubs ladies, the Grey Goose has me feeling sort of loose [stream of high pitched cackles],” which I then used to the same end as I had the phrase “ENGLISH ONLY” in Paris; it was to designate my status as being fanny pack away from being a tourist. Hopefully, if they thought I was lost and drunk, they would assume me less of a physical threat — like a sedated rhino — and I could get out before they alerted the townsfolk of my whereabouts.
The truth is, the only thing that makes me sweat and st-st-fumble my words more than a hot dude is a hot chick who still dons My-Size-Barbie-wear to hit up Johnny O’s. I wave a little white flag as I rummage through youthful memories of playing “avoid the brick” in the backyard with my brother, searching for some semblance of common ground for conversation. Hair is fun. Too generic. So why isn’t L.C. better friends with Whitney? Who am I kidding? I’ve only seen previews. I have periods, too. No, that backfired last time. Got it!
“My sister used to have Barbies. I got one too, once, but then I painted black makeup on her and tried to Jello-dye her hair green, so Mom said no more …” Oh, my God. And, after a long, somewhat itchy silence … “I also have periods.”
So why was I sacrificing my last dollop of dignity — that I very well should be rationing for senior week — for one night of dancing under the three functioning multicolored light bulbs and hand-me-down disco ball at Dino’s with the B-side modern-day cast of Saved by the Bell?
Because I freaking love friendship — in all its forms.
I love besties, single-serving friends, party friends, drunk friends, dude-friends, awkward sexual tension friends, obligatory male shopper friends, the only guy in your study group who catches onto your sarcasm, that girl with the full arm-sleeve tat on the subway that makes you wish you were cool enough to smoke hookah with her and talk about how punk rock isn’t what it used to be.
Sometimes, the greatest friendships begin and end in a single glance. There is absolutely nothing better than sitting in Olin café, watching with obvious horror as a spandex-ridden sophomore walks around barefoot, sucking on a lollipop and screaming “No, the BMW!” into her bedazzled celly, and then noticing a mirrored expression of disgust on the girl sitting across from you. That brief moment of shared confusion and disbelief gives me a sense of hope; and while I may not remember your face, bio-studier, we share invisible matching friendship bracelets — 4eva.
While short-term bonding can restore our faith in the (partial) sanity of our race, the absolute truth is that our BFFs have had the greatest effect on the person we’ve become. So I blame you, Andy, current juvie resident and once boy-next-door-with-an-obvious-case-of-Tourette’s, for my bouts of speaking like a trucker with a stubbed toe. Rachel, current baby mama and once fellow-blacktop-bully: any promiscuity on my part is a direct result of your influence. And Jim, current Army recruit and once drug dealer, well … you were pretty cool. Sorry about making you sell drugs.
But my favorite friends are the ones you just don’t expect — the tiny Precious Moment in your hallway that eats men alive, the slightly effeminate middle school classmate that convinces you to quit the life of basketball and sign up for voice camp, the tatted-up Irish bartender who couch-surfs and fights any guy who tries to look up your skirt. And yes, the 70-year-old man who can play concertos on glasses filled with water. Whether it’s some assault-like macking techniques, the harmony to “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot,” dirty Irish street fighting moves, or just a sweet CD, you take so much away from those sketchy, awesome, and entirely random relationships.
Sure, I didn’t meet my next bestie under the dim, dirty lights of Dino’s. I also didn’t get to make out (I assumed that goal was understood). But I only have one year left, and I’m going to take every opportunity to befriend some surprisingly cool kids, even if I have to suffer through a few sweaty grindfests to find them.
Especially if I get to suffer through a few sweaty grindfests to find them.
Mmm … grinding.
Shannan Scarselletta is a senior in the College of Arts and Sciences. She can be reached at sscarselletta@cornellsun.com. Awkward Turtle will appear alternate Thursdays this semester.