Lessions in Love From A Man in Pearls

Renée Levesque

Lessons in Love from A Man in Pearls

The dating scene at a PWI in suburban Connecticut is far from glamorous–it’s appalling. Men who want relationships are unicorns, Tinder is for hookups only, and I can count on one hand the number of times guys have flirted with me at the bar. Once, too many drinks in, I literally winked at someone and asked if they wanted to buy me a White Claw. They shot me a pitying glance before turning away. Better yet? I offered to buy a guy a drink who explained to me he wasn’t drinking, waited twenty minutes at the bar to bring him a cup of water (let that sink in), and found him kissing a gorgeous blonde girl when I returned. I once begged someone to make out with me at a house party (he didn’t). Another time, I complimented a guy’s baseball hat to “shoot my shot.”

“Hey, I like your hat,” I said. “Speak your truth,” he said. To say I’ve been humbled as a college student looking for a relationship would be a laughable understatement. Unluckily, I grew up watching rom-coms–religiously and to a fault. I confuse lust with romantic chemistry, mistakenly believe boys will fall in love with me if I stand solemnly in the corner at a party, and, when guys seem remotely interested in me, I freak out and pawn them off on my friends (“Oh! You saw Jessie on Bumble?! PLEASE tell me you swiped right!). It probably doesn’t help that I spend a decent amount of time studying the astrological compatibility between myself and every cute stranger I make eye contact with.

My boy criteria are as follows: ● Is a charismatic, charm-your-pants-off kind of guy ● Is sensitive and vulnerable around the people he’s closest to ● Is athletically inclined and musically gifted (I blame Troy Bolton, okay?) ● Rocks a flannel ● Has a witty sense of humor ● Looks vaguely similar to Chris Evans (or, better yet, is Chris Evans!)

But when alcohol’s coursing through my veins, all bets are off. Dignity? Gone. Self-worth? Never heard of her. Last I checked, my self-respect hitched a ride to the moon, only to be swallowed by a black hole and lost indefinitely.

While drunk, my boy criteria takes a dramatic nosedive: ● Has a pulse ● Is, obviously, consenting

I’m now a senior, and my hope of finding a college sweetheart is dwindling. But every weekend, I cake on mascara, wear my finest pushup bra, and–in an attempt to be sexy, because what else?–wiggle my eyebrows at attractive men who want nothing to do with me (and who definitely don’t find my eyebrow wiggling sexy). Life is so unfair! One night, high on life and drunk off High Noons, I approached a boy named Max. Max knew nothing about me, but I knew enough about him; I had stalked his Instagram earlier that week and was instantly attracted to his “granola” aesthetic. Rock-climbing, Birkenstock-loving, pearl necklace-wearing Max seemed like boyfriend material, pretty close to the “real deal.” I marched up to him with liquid confidence. Tapping his shoulder for his attention, I said, “You’re Max.” “And you are?” “I’m Renée. We haven’t met, but I stalked your social media and I think you’re cute.” At this, he laughed. (See? Stalking is cute and not at all creepy!) For a while, Max and I talked about our mutual connections. I was formerly colleagues with his older brother; two years ago, his best friend broke my classmate’s heart; and his dad–a professor at our university–who assigns too much reading for my roommate’s liking. We moved on to hobbies, his (rock climbing, drawing, and playing guitar) and mine (song-writing, reading, finding new crystals to obsess over) and our areas of study (he’s an aspiring biochemical engineer who wants to change the world, and I’m a marketing major who wants to mooch off my parents until age thirty). The conversation was flowing and all seemed well. After some time, my roommate and her boyfriend came over to let me know it was time to leave. Before I left, Max asked for my “information.” “My Snapchat or my phone number?” I asked. He shrugged, “Either works.” “I hate Snapchat, but take my number.” He smiled like I had said the right thing.

I waited a week for Max to call or text, but he never did. Pissed and channeling my inner Olivia Rodrigo, I wrote a song about him.

Why’d you ask for my number If you weren’t gonna call? Now I’ve got my hopes up For nothing at all I’m dreading the weekend ‘Cause I know you’ll be there And I know that I shouldn’t But I’ll probably stare

(I look forward to being named 2023’s Breakthrough Artist of the Year.) The following Friday, I saw Max at the local bar. Despite my friends’ advice, I walked up to him and said, “Climb any rocks lately?” To my pleasant surprise, he invited me to go rock climbing with a small group of friends on Sunday. Sure, it wasn’t a one-on-one affair, but I’ll take what I can get. Two days later, I anxiously awaited a text from Max, knowing full well I may never hear anything. Finally, at 3 p.m., my phone dinged. Max: “The plan is still to go :)” Me: “Ok! Just let me know what time.” Forty minutes later, Max and his best friend’s girlfriend, Claire, picked me up. (Apparently, Claire qualified as his “small group of friends.”) I didn’t know whether to walk or jog to the car, so I did an awkward sort of jog that made it seem like I was limping. I plopped into the back seat, oddly feeling like a third wheel. On our way to the rock climbing gym, I wouldn’t shut up. I kept babbling as if it would calm my nerves, but it only wound my stomach tighter.

“So, like, are you good at rock climbing? How long have you been doing this? On a scale of 1 to 10, how difficult is it? Will I be sore tomorrow? What’s the vibe at this gym? Do you think these leggings are okay to wear? Should I put my hair in braids, or would a low ponytail be better?” I sounded like a nervous wreck, and to be fair, I was. Despite my inability to play it cool, I had fun. After teaching me the basics, Max went his own way and I went mine. He checked on me from time to time, offering words of encouragement when I tackled the more challenging courses, but overall, I was in my own little rock climbing world for the next two hours.

It turned out Max was a rock climbing instructor at the gym and Claire had recently picked up climbing as a way to avoid other forms of exercise. They both made climbing look effortless while I lathered myself in bouldering chalk and forced myself not to compliment Max’s beautiful back muscles. At one point, he shared with me some climbing jargon: “beta,” for example, refers to specific advice on how to ascend a climb. But in my brain, “beta” will always be a slang term for the weak. So, naturally, I said, “Are you calling me a beta right now?” Was it a terrible joke? Absolutely. Did Max laugh? Of course not. In fact, the more jokes I made, the more his smile twisted into a frown. Every attempt at flirting was ill-received, so by the time we left, I was deflated and confused. What was this guy’s deal? Flash forward and I’m sending him a thank you text. “Thanks for inviting me today, I had a lot of fun!” “Glad you had fun :) – that’s what it’s all about!” Then, because I mentioned that I’d be watching a movie that night, he asked me what movie I was planning to watch. Pitch Perfect, obviously. But for the sake of keeping the conversation alive, I told him “any recommendations are welcome.” He didn’t disappoint:

1. High School Musical 2 2. Crazy, Stupid, Love 3. Mean Girls 4. No Strings Attached 5. Hercules

(Objectively, these are fantastic recommendations. I’m sure Max would make a wonderful Rotten Tomatoes critic.) Having never seen Hercules (I know, sue me!), I gave him a layup: “I have a confession to make. I’ve never seen Hercules.” Which, in most languages, roughly translates into “Wanna watch Hercules together and maybe kiss a little?” Based on his response, I decided he’s either dumb or wholeheartedly uninterested–though most likely the latter. Max disliked my message, said “Go watch it,” and, as if I didn’t already sound desperate enough, I responded, “All by myself??” And that, my friends, was the end of the conversation. He left me on read three months ago and I haven’t heard anything since. It’s a tale as old as time! That night, I laughed until I cried. I couldn’t decide whether the situation was hilarious, humiliating, or a little bit of both. My friends told me, “We tried warning you: never trust a man who wears a pearl necklace.” I want that on my headstone.

Dating in college is a lot like rock climbing. Fear is a natural reaction–in flirting, in climbing. But taking a chance on the unknown and embracing vulnerability, whether that’s complimenting a stranger or leaping for a tricky ledge, is always worth it. Failure is inevitable, and the sooner we accept failure as part of life, the easier it is to find humor in bad situations. If there’s one thing my love life (or lack thereof) has taught me, it’s this: Learn to laugh at yourself. Life is one giant shit show, but it makes for great laughs and greater stories. And never, under any circumstances, admit to the guy you like that you’ve never watched Hercules.

MEET THE AUTHOR

Renée Levesque is a senior at Fairfield University. She is majoring in Marketing with minors in Sociology and Black Studies. In her free time, she enjoys reading, songwriting, watching romantic comedies, and baking Toll House cookies.

She lives on Cape Cod with her parents, two younger siblings, and an obnoxiously cute labradoodle. She aspires to work in the publishing industry and marry Timothée Chalamet.