The answers always elude us single girls. For guys, the riddles are simple: "what moves, has two breasts and a vagina? Natty Lite!" For gals, the pieces never seem to fit: "Kenny has a great body, but is he smart? Is he just stoner-smart or make-a-lot-of-money smart? And if he makes a lot of money, will he buy me a house in the Hamptons? And if he does, will he let me name out first child Brittany?" With so much drama in the U of P, it's kind of hard being a girl in D&G. This feedback loop of neurotic analysis that characterizes our sex has thrown me into a tail-spin of stress. I have to wonder: will I always bear this cross of indecision? Or will I someday rise above my petty woes and be born again a woman of action?
Meanwhile, studying at Houston Hall on Wednesday, I decided that it was time I stopped agonizing about my life. I had made it this far to Penn-- I wasn't Phi Beta Kappa, but my grades are all right-- and plus, I had great friends. As my tits hadn't yet started to sag to the depths of wrinkly hell, I wondered if maybe it wasn't time for me to raise the level of fun high to the heavens.
In the corner, under the spotlight of a fluorescent lamp, I was losing my concentration. The sound of music penetrated my ears and the melody was a welcome respite from the bland numbers I had been crunching all day. "Dooo wop! Doooo wop!" I let the words bathe me in their glow and wash away my woes. "Boom boom chick!" Like the pied piper's flute, I followed the music until I found its source: a pro-bono performance by Penn's most famous a cappella group- Pound the Meat. The singers bobbed back and forth like rabbis at prayer and the sound of their snapping fingers brought back memories of my grandmother's knitting needles. Cool would be the understatement to describe the feeling it induced. Before I knew it I was at the head of the crowd that had amassed inside, and I waved my Bic lighter above my head, drooling over the dreamy singers.
And speaking of dreamy, Jesus (pronounced 'Hey-Zeus'), the head soloist, approached me after the show. Jesus had a commanding stage presence. He needed one--it took serious balls to get up in front of a crowd without a band. His voice was sweeter than milk and honey, his Beatles shag cascaded down his forehead in ringlets of gold, and suddenly I felt as nervous as Paris Hilton at the pearly gates.
"I couldn't help but notice you watching me when I sang 'Welcome to the Jungle.' Did you like my vibrato falsetto technique?" he cooed with the confidence of Barry Manilow.
I had to restrain myself from vibrattoing all over. I couldn't believe what was happening: I was in the presence of a flesh and blood rock-star. I wondered what it would be like to ride his tour bus, to play his instrument, to be his back up, back up. So I decided to take the matter into my own hands, so to speak, and asked him to come back to my place. My mind was as clear as if I had just been to confession and for the first time in months, I didn't have to deliberate over my actions.
And speaking of action, I was happy to be getting some. I didn't care about the multitude of groupies who knelt in Jesus' wake--now I would be his Mary Magdalene. My hands crept toward the Holy Grail...searching. . . searching. . .
"Um. . . us there something you need to tell me?" I finally asked.
"Are you talking about my balls?" he scoffed.
"Well, if you mean that you don't have any, than yeah"
"Do you know the pressure I have to be such a good singer? I knew I would never be able to hit those high notes unless I became a eunuch."
I had decided to hook up with Jesus because I wanted to let loose, live like a rock-star, but now my dreams of celebrity were as dashed as Jesus' discarded testicles. I thought to myself: a cappella singers must be to Penn what football players are to UT-Austin-- both groups are quasi-gods on campus. I pondered: maybe Marx was right when he said that religion is the opiate of the masses. I would need to be heavily opiated to hook up with this ball-less wonder. I decided to go back to my mortal life--full of mundane tests and unnecessary neurotic dilemmas--and leave the whole world in God's hands. At least knowing the location of Jesus' balls was one problem off my chest. I could only hope that my chest would have more luck next week.
