Women, according to tradition, are fickle by nature. Now, O Noble Feminists, before you release the hounds, please allow me this: I, too, thought this generalization to be unfair and untrue until I read Denise Spellman’s confused ode to infidelity on Friday (“Start dreaming of Spring Break bikinis and boys now,” Jan. 17, pg. 7).
If memory serves me correctly, many of Ms. Spellman’s columns touched upon her inability to find a “decent guy” (she blamed BU’s skewed female-to-male ratio) or her attempts to inject traditional romance into hectic college relationships. In fact, I distinctly remember her writing “I’m just a little old-fashioned when it comes to the opposite sex.”
Thus, as I read Ms. Spellman’s perspective, I hoped to discover an iota of irony, a scrap of sarcasm, anything to assure me that she hadn’t become another nameless model in BU’s “gigantic fashion show” (which she satirized in one of her columns). I was, however, profoundly disappointed to observe that her tongue, regardless of how many people and places it will explore come this March, certainly never found its way into her cheek.
I’m obviously not entitled to mount a moral high horse and scold Ms. Spellman for her amorous desires. Just like any other anthropoid, I experience and even indulge in the urge to procreate. If I were to call myself a pillar of morality, I’d be standing on extremely shaky ground. Nevertheless, I am flabbergasted by the hypocrisy that, like a pair of breasts on a Bahamian beach, she so wantonly displays in her article.
How can she possibly write off infidelity by calling Spring Break “a separate, booze-soaked matter altogether?” One could easily find the same brand of “Bacchanalia,” as well as the same amount of gyrating, sweaty men, in an Allston apartment, an MIT frat or even an unsupervised floor of Warren Towers. Sure, the sun won’t be as hot and the guys won’t be as tanned, but does the fact that everyone will be drinking Bud Light instead of Corona, wearing Abercrombie ‘ Fitch instead of Bermuda shorts and bikinis and dancing to Eminem instead of Jimmy Buffet change much of anything? No. Cheating is cheating, whether it’s with an intoxicated, stimulated frat boy in Boston or a soused and aroused Spring-Breaker in the Bahamas.
I wonder if Ms. Spellman ever stopped to consider that the “beautifully tanned, attractive college students” she so eloquently lusts after are no different from the relatively pale but equally drunk and horny men who inhabit Boston’s countless bars, clubs and parties. If she did, perhaps she’d realize that she needs a much better excuse to contemplate cheating on “Derek” two months in advance.
Ms. Spellman is certainly entitled to do whatever (and whomever) she wants with her body. She should, however, realize that perhaps just perhaps her oft-thought and ne’er so well expressed inability to find a decent, romantic guy here at BU is not due to the Silber Quotient after all.
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