Crossroads

Women’s college made dating tricky when I was living it and, for better or for worse, its influence chased me into the co-ed universe. First of all, I like boys and there wasn’t a single one enrolled at Scripps—slim pickings. Less literally, the women’s college mindset sticks with me as I lunge headfirst into the complex world of post-college dating. More than two years after the fact, I can’t shake it back to the California desert.

Fellow Scripps graduate Ogram (her not-so-secret ogre name) has a problem that tips precariously at the intersection of feminism and dating. It’s a crossroads at which I find myself relatively frequently and, frankly, it’s one of my least favorite locales. Most of my friends and most of the cool-looking women I see on any subway line and in every bar have likely found themselves wandering there as well—aimlessly or with purpose.

Ogram’s been dating a man—we’ll call him Harvard, though his Ivy is slightly more Southern—for close to a year. A year. They spend a lot of time together, as you tend to do when you date someone you like. When she describes the situation to me one morning on Gchat—a dangerous, virtual box that bears heavier convo than its creators intended—I think it sounds normal, verging on great. Then she brings up the But. The But is that Ogram doesn’t call Harvard her boyfriend, nor does he call her his girlfriend. Those old-timey labels are apt for what’s going down, but the air is thick with their disuse. Fine, except that Ogram is at the point where she’s ready; she wants some stability, some recognition, some commitment. But she has a hard time admitting that—to herself, to Harvard, perhaps to women everywhere. She kinda tries to bring it up—kinda when they’re drinking—but for now and maybe forever, bf/gf is not currency in which they trade. He mostly returns her text messages, but avoids even benign public affection. Even after months of enjoying the benefits that come with dating, Harvard hesitates to define. Miss. Miriam Webster would not be proud.

This brand of non-relationship-relationship is common, it seems, for our generation. When I lived in Argentina, they used the term novecito, which translates roughly to little boyfriend—Your almost boyfriend. Thanks (or not) to post-feminism, we have fuck buddies, we have “things,” we have whatevers. We’re casual—like sale-rack khakis from the Gap—because who needs more? In these situations, we tell ourselves that it really doesn’t matter what we call our romantic partners, and in some ways it really doesn’t. Only in some ways—some big, looming ways—it really does. There’s a link between labels and expectations; refusing simple labels severs the link, leaving us where, exactly, in the realm of commitment? Avoiding definition opens up a dark cavern of interpretation. Beneath the wordy surface, I think there’s more going on than mere semantics. 

As feminists—and if that’s not something you call yourself, start—we’re hyper-aware of how to behave in modern relationships, to our role as the shapelier half of a romantic duo. We are told by the first and second-wavers to be independent, self-assured and obsessively modern in all our dealings—negotiate men like you negotiate salary. We’ve got high-powered careers, our wonderful friends, our sports, our book clubs, our supportive families. A boyfriend is not required for the purchase or enjoyment of a $12 cocktail, nor is one necessary for sex. Technically, we’re good without men. And when one does waltz (or slam) into our lives, we want to make sure to play it cool so as not to appear needy or obsessive. Avoid, at all costs, being the boring girlfriend type: That’s tired, it’s not you. Be cutting-edge, non-traditional, blasé. Shoot arrows like a Woman Warrior (thanks, Maxine). We are careful that the way we behave as daters aligns with our beliefs as feminists. Possibly, we are overly cautious. 

I worry that this mindset—though born of something empowering, with all the best intentions—has confused our sense of normalcy where dating is concerned. And if I’m going to get Smith College militant, it’s allowed men to get away with a bit too much because they assume we're cool with wishy-washy. Even high-powered, smart, sexy, independent women want stable relationships with reliable, phenomenal men. At some points in our lives, we may want boyfriends who are proud to call us their girlfriends, and that’s more than fine. It’s not old-fashioned or anti-feminist to want certain things from a relationship and to expect men to deliver. Neither the rules of feminism nor the rules of dating are hard and fast. It seems the happy union is attainable simply by admitting what it is we want and being comfortable asking for it. The intersection of feminism and dating is tricky to navigate—especially if you have the Scripps College podcast implanted in your frontal lobe—but there is ample space for the healthy coexistence of the two variables.