Written By: Samuel Cobb (’27)
Look, let’s be honest here. Some people are afraid of heights, others of spiders. Then there’s me— bravely navigating the treacherous waters of a female-dominated university. Yes, the irrational fear of women, but I’m not talking about the cartoonish run-away to the Arctic type of situation. I’m not afraid they’ll hit me with their purses or yell at me for wearing socks with sandals (though it has happened). No, my fear is a bit more subtle, a little more nuanced. The truth is, women make me nervous in the most awkward, bumbling ways.
You see there’s something about their mannerism, their mastery of small talk, that leaves my hands clammy and my tongue to swell up in my mouth. Either I end up talking too much or too little. “You like cats? I liked a cat once. He got run over by a car.” Wait, there are women at the homecoming dance? I guess I’ll hide by the punch table and snack on goldfish and fruit snacks.
It doesn’t matter if it’s an after-class chat or just a casual encounter in the dining hall. Even if I knew them for my entire college career, the results are still the same. I freeze up like Shen Pond in December. I scramble to find something meaningful to say, something that they will look back on and think “Wow, that guy is cool.” Instead, the words that come out are not cool guy words, but “So.., you like…uh, weather? … Snow good?”
And don’t get me started on group scenarios. It’s like standing in front of a firing squad made up completely of charm and intelligence. I laugh nervously at jokes I don’t get, make a few comments on the snowfall, and pray they don’t ask the dreaded haircut question. The weather app is oftentimes my companion and friend in these situations. Whenever I manage to survive one of these encounters I have to drown my pain in a glass of Upstate New York low-fat Chocolate milk to clear my head (Current count: 85 glasses).
Before you state the most obvious solution —therapy?— I have considered it. But I am sure that it is not that big of a problem per se, and can’t people keep their little quirks? Some people are afraid of clowns, which is valid, and I am afraid of the person who can read my very soul. And I already participate in therapy, albeit a little homebrewed version (I have an unopened Lego box in my dorm room).
So while my soul is being read like an intriguing novel by Mary Shelly, I’ll do my best to survive the fast-approaching homecoming party. I’ll be fine as long as the opposite sex doesn’t ask me too many questions, or make eye contact for too long. Because even though women are frightfully scary I might eventually build up the courage to say “hi” before I die.
