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.
First, we attacked the question of what exactly game is. Game, as I understand it, is the ability to successfully meet members of the opposite sex, or the same sex, depending on which gender you send your proverbial Crush cans to. Now, you can define "meet" however you want. Meet can mean getting a name, getting a number, getting a room key, or perhaps getting your inflatable Shamu in to her blow-up inner tube. Meeting someone is completely open to interpretation.
What was apparently not open for interpretation, according to my fellow spring breakers, was the fact that under this particular definition, I, without a doubt, had game. So does Ellen. However, what my friends failed to realize was that our game was based on one simple fact: We are not afraid of getting rejected.
Those of you who have known me over the past four years know that my particular style of game ranges anywhere from Reese-Witherspoon-in-"Cruel-Intentions"-innocent to Glenn-Close-in-"Fatal-Attraction" crazy. I have written creepy emails. I have instant messaged people late at night who did not know I had their screenname. I have even pretended to be drunk in order to fake drunk-dial a guy I had a crush on. (And if you're wondering if this crush was you, the answer is yes, it was, because I've done this more than once.) All of this has ended in flat-out rejection and has not added to my apparent reputation among my friends of having mad game. Except it has.
I can now count among my friends many of the unfortunate recipients of my not-so-borderline stalking. I can walk past them on the Quad and give them a smile and a wave. I can saunter up to them at Thursday night bowling league and make fun of the fact that they own their own bowling shoes. And ball. And ball bag. I can even call some of them on the phone completely sober?and act like it.
You see, I believe that game isn't just about putting another notch on your bedpost. For every awkward morning goodbye from the driver's seat of my roommate's car that I've had, I have been shot down, turned down, "Nexted," and ignored at least twice. But once my ego has mended, and once his restraining order has expired, more often than not, we become friends.
Just because the object of your affection isn't interested in riding the Hook-Up Express straight to Relationship City doesn't mean you two can't be friends (eventually). Meeting people, whether at a party or at Loose Leaves, is about more than the exchange of bodily fluids. It's also about making new friends, often getting rejected by those new friends, and still being able to say the next morning that you had a really good time last night.
Going out to the bars on Spring Break, just like going to the graffiti party at Baxter, doesn't have to be about uncomfortable public make-outs and misreading social cues. It can just be about you, your friends, and a slightly off-key rendition of "I Don't Wanna Lose Your Love Tonight" by the Outfield. And if you happen to make out with the Sausage King of Chicago (pun intended) while you're at it, then hell, you've earned every last ounce of that "mad game" you claim to have.