Dear Yuantee,
Earlier this semester, I sought your advice on how to win the heart of the minx in my feminist philosophy class with enormous tats. I really dug your column, especially how you used your humor effectively and always in the context of your point. To take your advice, I mistakenly thought, was my best shot at getting laid.
After finding out her name (long, ethnic and difficult to spell), I soon learned that she was training to run the Boston Marathon. I thought I'd hit the jackpot. Marathon Monday would be my big day.
I found her tracking number after a good deal of Internet surfing. The last update I'd get of her progress would be after 30 kilometers, so at the 32 mark, I'd be waiting.
I wore my friend's girlfriend's Tufts Class of 2011 T-shirt so she'd think I was a senior at Tufts, which would be so awesome. I soaked it in water to make it look as though I'd been sweating for 30 kilometers. I cut off the bottom half of my shirt to show her my situation, as you would Zhu. I was drunk.
She came running all beautiful over the hill, her playful jubblies rendered stoic by her sports bra, her flowing curls confined to a hypnotizing ponytail. It was a look I recognized from watching her at the gym. I snuck onto the course and began jogging slowly, waiting for her to catch up in all her bodily glory.
When we finally met, I began making the loud noises that you advised me were necessary, biding my time before mustering the courage to address her by name. I began seducing her as I ran, uttering her name repeatedly. She definitely recognized me, and I could tell by her surprised look that she was impressed, likely wondering what else she might have in common with the mysterious, marathon-running boy from her feminist philosophy class. I took a break in between utterances of her name to tell her I liked to party. I asked her if she was drunk, and she didn't respond, so I assumed she was. I told her how much I'd had to drink and that she was looking swell.
She slowed to a walk, and I faced the dilemma of whether to walk with her or to impress her by continuing to run. I settled on running circles around her as she walked. I took my shirt off and began waving it around, riling up the spectators to chant the name written on her arm — that long, loin-tickling name I'd been repeating for weeks.
But just as I thought we were really connecting, she caught a second wind, and I began to hit the wall. She pulled ahead, and I couldn't keep up. I screamed her name one last time before collapsing at the 35-kilometer mark, while she disappeared over the horizon and Elvis came roaring past me.
I dreamt I woke up in the hospital and she was standing over me, her smiling face shining bright above her ample, cloud-like breasts. Instead, I woke up at the Burren alone, the scratchy guitars of legendary Tufts band Knives For Sale playing in the background. I thought it must be a non-Senior Pub Night Thursday, but then I realized that I was still dreaming and that I was actually in the hospital alone, listening to Knives For Sale on my iPod as an overweight nurse's bosom laughed at me from above.
I'm going insane, Yuantee, fearing my muse to be a lost cause. I ran the marathon for her. What more could I Zhu?
—Commonwealth's Casualty
CC,
Not a lost cause. Train next time. At least, that's what I would Zhu.
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Yuantee Zhu is a senior majoring in biology. He can be reached at Yuantee.Zhu@tufts.edu.
