Two types of people in this world: weekend and weekday

Emily Eaton, Columnist

I don’t hook up with guys (“hook up” defined loosely and up for interpretation) often, but when I do, I see them on our campus the next day. 

There’s a myth floating around Grand Valley that our school is actually big enough to prevent this. It’s truly a beautiful lie to tell yourself in the midst of the hookup that’s not going well in the first place. 

At one point, I realized I had to stop fooling myself we might have lots of students, but not enough land. Usually, they say, when you go to a large University, you never have to fear stumbling upon the guy you stumbled towards last night. However, at GVSU, he’s probably behind you in the Einstein’s line. Or you have to hold the door open for him into Kirkhof. 

Mackinac is confusing and crowded enough that you think you’d be safe, but think again. He’s rounding the corner of Hallway D.

The very first guy I kissed here, which was at my first tailgate, was just like how I imagined it would be: absolutely awful. It was so messy and sweaty that I was more thankful than disappointed that I didn’t hear from him the next day. 

I heard from him again at the next party, of course, but the beautifully handcrafted frat boy stage caved in under us, and I took that as a sign to never do that again. He has the loveliest girlfriend now, and she always says hello to me. 

One guy last winter left my lips swollen for the entire next day. I felt it happen during, so I did my usual, “Wow, I’m so tired” excuse to get out of it.

One man this summer knocked his teeth on mine, and once again, I got this strange wave of tiredness that I just couldn’t possibly ignore any longer. That’s what I told all of them, anyways.  

After every night out, once I lay in my bed alone (or with a drunk girlfriend next to me) at 3 a.m. and pulled the covers up, I find myself thankful I managed to ditch these fine gentlemen before they inevitably find themselves back at my apartment, and I find myself not-so-patiently waiting at 9 a.m. for them to wake up and leave. 

Even though I’m not lying when I say I’m tired on campus, I can’t really use it as an escape route like I do during the after-party. School comes first, and so does my white chocolate mocha from Einstein’s. 

To become at peace with the awkward avoidance, I remind myself “weekend me” and “weekday me” are two completely different versions of me. These men didn’t have that windswept encounter with weekday me, and weekday me is the one who shows up to campus. 

So, it’s perfectly acceptable to pretend I don’t know them, because that version of me really doesn’t. The men don’t seem to mind. I pray, for their sake, they’ve got a weekend version and a weekday version too.