I am what some would politely call a ‘delicate flower,’ although I think pansy-ass is a more appropriate term. Once, I tried to learn how to play golf, and after less than an hour in the sun, I fainted. Once, I tried to take a bath, and after twenty minutes in the steam, I fainted. Once, I tried to get in a jacuzzi, and who would’ve guessed, I fainted. Heat and I do not agree.
Based on prior experience, I saw this coming a week ago when, while packed like a sardine into a too-small, over-capacity F bus, I began to feel the telltale, lightheaded signs. True to my prediction, yesterday afternoon the second I stepped off the bus, I fainted. I ate snow. It was humiliating. After all, all those people crammed into a small space, all wearing parkas and giving off body heat – it was inevitable. There was nothing for it.
But this article isn’t about my similarities to an eighteenth century storybook heroine who carries around smelling salts and has a fainting couch in every room in her house (although maybe I should). This article is about one man who ruined Rutgers for me in just 12 seconds. I never knew his name, never saw him again, but after my encounter with him I will begrudge the entire Rutgers student body – namely the men – probably for the rest of my life.
It was a warm September afternoon during my first semester on campus. It couldn’t have been more than a few weeks since I moved in. I hopped on a bus one day, noticed with despair that there were no available seats, and took hold of a pole. The man who ruined my college experience was sitting before me, and after the bus began to move he stood and offered me his seat. I thanked him, sat, and he moved on to another part of the bus. No come-ons, no awkward conversation, just a guy giving a gal a place to sit.
After that day, I’ve been waiting in vain for a another such gentleman to offer me his seat, but the day has never come to pass. Neither have I seen any other man offer any other woman a seat. It doesn’t necessarily have to be me, although admittedly that would be ideal, but just to see that chivalry hasn’t been entirely massacred and thrown piteously into an unmarked grave would be a comforting sight. Alas, I am always to be disappointed. Even on the verge of passing out, when I’m sure my face was turning any number of interesting colors including red, white, and possibly purple, nobody has since offered me a seat, and I suspect nobody ever will again.
Eloise Gayer