I grew up thinking girls were superhuman. Angels. They were better dressed than us boys, they seemed more in control of their lives, and they didn't curse just to show they could. It's probably why I decided to surround myself with girl friends. Maybe some of their angelic qualities would rub off on me.
But the last few weeks have shown me just how wrong I was. Girls can be gross, not because they're particularly nasty, but just because they're human. They go through many of the same things guys go through. One of my housemates has a trashcan surrounded by a ring of used tissues, the remnants of a sick-day game of basketball. The shower drain catches clumps of old hair. And every now and then, I'll hear stories of normal girl issues gone horribly wrong. Girls poop too. I found out the hard way.
I think the key is not to be freaked out. It takes a lot for me to get grossed out. But it's still hard to think of girls as flawed humans. It might sound sexist, even naïve, but I grew up in a media-saturated home that told me boys were dirty and girls were clean. Some of my best girl friends try to maintain this illusion. And then some insist on showing the world their not-so-perfect habits, their not-so-impressive hygiene, their general un-angelicness. And believe it or not, I've come to admire them the most.
Perhaps it's the fact that girls sometimes scare me. I have no problem talking to friends, but possible romantic interests leave me in a cold sweat. The realization that girls are human and deal with the same problems I deal with makes it a whole lot easier to approach them with confidence and a sense of humor.
Late one night, one of the girls knocked on my door. We were both sick, and she asked to share a "gross" sick story because she thought I would be able to sympathize. I was totally fine with it. But I would soon swallow my words.
She had a stuffy nose and a sinus infection, and for some reason she thought the action of swallowing her own saliva had caused a build-up of gas in her stomach. So, instead of, you know, burping to relieve the pressure, she decided to expel her spit into a nearby Dixie cup.
Are you hearing me? She spat two days' worth of sick spit — which she described as being roughly equal to two shots — into an impromptu spittoon.
I still don't understand why she didn't burp herself. In hindsight, burping would have been much less grotesque.
And that grossed me out. But it didn't scare me away. All I could do was laugh. It's nasty and it was hard to listen to, let alone transcribe. But she trusted me enough to tell me her embarrassing story because she knew I would have a sense of humor about it. And for that, I think our friendship went to a new level.
Before we were housemates, one of the girls lived on my freshman year floor. She was a swimmer, and she had to grow out her leg hair to train herself to swim faster. I remember begging her to show me her unshaven legs when she reached the three month mark. All my guy friends were grossed out and begged her not to show me. But she did, and I loved her more for it. She wasn't that girl I had idealized for almost two decades. She did things that surprised me. That was when it clicked.
In a twisted way, my housemates' unclean habits have become endearing. I love them because we're immature enough to talk about these things and mature enough to laugh about them.
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Griffin Pepper is a senior majoring in political science. He can be reached at Griffin.Pepper@tufts.edu.
