The Bubble is not reality TV

Romancing with Riley: Defined by Facebook

Alright, fine. I'll admit it. Facebook defines my life. It tells me who I'm friends with, what my friends think about me, who I'm dating and who I have a crush on, what I like and dislike, and even what I look like when I'm not actively trying to look unattractive, as I am in every single picture I post of myself. And I would venture to guess that I am not the only one who feels this way, especially when it comes to relationships.

Romancing with Riley: To get 'mad game,' take risks

While trying to stay afloat on our life-size inflatable Shamu in the middle of the Caribbean Sea this past spring break, a few of my friends and I stumbled upon the question of "game," as in who had it and who didn't. Both yours truly and my friend, who we will call "Ellen Grenley" for the sake of her privacy, were accused of having, and I quote "mad game," due in most part to an impromptu spin-the-bottle game that took place on the deck of the local dive bar the night before. This proclamation immediately spawned a debate of what exactly constituted game, and subsequently, a rather heated discussion of whether or not either of us actually possessed such a thing.

Romancing with Riley

This piece represents the opinion of the author:

March 3, 2006

Whenever my parents discover that I haven't heard about some "big" current event, such as, oh I don't know, quail hunts, or the fact that Elton John is gay, they blame it on "the Bowdoin Bubble." And of course I always roll my eyes and then promptly watch Headline News for the next 72 hours straight, trying to catch up on everything I missed while I was immersed in "Grey's Anatomy," "The Gauntlet II," and "That 70's Show" reruns. But what my parents don't seem to realize is that all that reality TV, all those vintage "Sex and the City" episodes, and certainly Doctor McDreamy, have taught me something very important about the Bowdoin Bubble: It really does exist. Though perhaps not in the way my parents think.

When it comes to living in the "real world," Bowdoin has left us ill-prepared. (Obviously I'm referring to the actual real world, not the hit MTV reality show in which abnormally attractive people get blitzed and either make out or throw each other's stuff in the heated, indoor pool for 10-straight weeks, while not going to their awesome jobs but instead hanging out in jail.) We here in the Bubble live in a kind of dating purgatory: not quite the utopia of "Sex and the City," but not quite Colby, either.

Let's say, for instance, you go to the Helmreich Beach Party. Sand is flying, bodies are hard, sweat is dripping...and suddenly, you feel a cold beverage slide down the back of your brand new floral-print board shorts. You turn around to give this sloppy individual a piece of your mind, when suddenly you realize that this goddess that has sloshed her refreshment all over your nether-regions is someone you'd like to give a piece of something other than your mind. The two of you chat, you laugh, and regardless of how the night ends, you wake up the next morning feeling amazing. And then you don't see her all week. And then you have to go home for the weekend because your little sister is having her bat mitzvah. Before you know it, a week has passed, and though your sister is now a woman, the following Saturday night, as you watch in dismay as your goddess sloshes up against somebody else's toga, you realize that you are not The Man.

This is the perfect example of my One Week Theory. If you meet someone on a Saturday night, and for whatever reason don't manage to make another face-to-face contact within one week, your chances of ever getting together seem to plummet to just barely above zero. Time speeds up in the Bubble. In the real world, you can go a couple of days, even a week, without seeing the object of your affection, and that's okay. It doesn't result in a relationship's death. It just means you guys have something else to do, such as jet off to South Africa for a photo shoot, or maybe hop on a bus with four other people and hope the fact that you can play the recorder will save you from getting "Nexted."

You see, though I don't know a whole lot about the real world from personal experience. I've watched plenty of reality TV, and for the purposes of this column, that's good enough. I've learned that in the real world, relationships will be made or broken on national television and will involve roses and perhaps a secret identity that is only exposed after a ring is on the finger. I've learned that we will go on dates with three other girls to quaint restaurants where there seems to be no other patrons and compete for the attention of one fairly unattractive guy. I've learned that money can buy happiness, love, 15 minutes of fame, and insight in to the magical yet chaotic world of Britney and Kevin. I have learned that Flava Flav is crazy, Brigitte Nielsen is crazy, Janice Dickinson is mean and crazy, and every single person on "The Gauntlet" needs to get a real job.

Yes, the Bubble can be isolating. But despite the lack of dating, the One Week Theory, and the fact that sometimes you have to share an uncomfortable co-ed bathroom moment with your Helmreich goddess, it's still better than having to eat spiders that may or may not be poisonous just because Joe Rogan told you to. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go finish my application for "Survivor 36: Intercourse, PA." I've heard a lot of people meet their soul mates when they're starving for food. Or attention, whatever.

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