I was sitting at a table in LaFun with a friend when our conversation hit a lull. He then told me to tell him a funny story, so after sharing this with him, I want to give it to you, the reader, too:
My friends and I play the sentence game where we write and combine words and phrases with each other. One time our sophomore year we came up with the sentence “Queen Elizabeth threw the winning touchdown pass with a hot Spanish guy.” We then joked about finding the hot Spanish guy and his identity.
The next semester, I took a class at Notre Dame where I met the attractive Spanish Fulbright scholar who taught class at the same time I was in mine. I told my friends that he had to be the “hot Spanish guy”; he was tall, dark, and handsome and a Fulbright, so he’s clearly intelligent.
Flash forward to a month later, and I’m on a third or fourth date with a now-ex. I tell him about the sentence game and the one about Elizabeth throwing the touchdown pass with a hot Spanish guy. My ex said to me “which one?” Taking this to mean the “hot Spanish guy,“ I went into a lengthy explanation about the gorgeous man I saw three times a week for five minutes. After I finish, my ex awkwardly looks at me and says “No, I meant which Elizabeth?”
We continued to date for another four months after that oddly enough. If anything, I have more embarrassing stories of flirting and talking to the opposite sex that qualify as funny.
I once texted a Midshipman I was interested in that my family cheers for West Point during the Army-Navy game. The text I got back said “ooh, that’s a deal breaker.”
When I studied abroad in Ireland my sophomore year, I took a theology class to satisfy Notre Dame’s second theology requirement. The first day in class, a friend and I meet these sweet, smart and attractive young men. I felt my attraction growing for one of them until they mentioned that they’re part of the school’s seminary.
Later when I was in Ireland, I met a flirty guy at a bar and he invited me to go clubbing with him. After searching for him for over an hour at the club, I found him with his hand on some girl’s butt. After awkward introductions with him and the girl, we went dancing. When she and I were alone, she told me that their two-year anniversary was coming up and that she loved him. This story ends with my nagging conscience and doing the move from Dirty Dancingwith a 6-foot-7 tall stranger in the middle of an empty street, but that’s for a different time with more room in the inside column.
For going to Saint Mary’s where the stereotype is that we’re supposed to be good at flirting and dating, I’ve become the outlier. But hey, at least I (and hopefully you) get some laughs out of it.
