Presenting Ambition

It has been said that there are two kinds of people in this world: lovers and cynics. I’ve always been far more partial to the former; journals filled with awful high school poetry and a “Global Partnership for Effective Assistance” calendar presently hangs over my shoulder as artificial testament. But in recent discussion, a number of mates have commented on my losing the fluffy white edges of unbridled idealism since the beginning of our friendships throughout college, attaining an element of pragmatism which has certainly provided a valuable reality check to put in my wallet next to the “Be the change you wish to see” and “Love is all you need” personal IDs.

Well that’s not really all that surprising. College, after all, is expected to mould naïve, “yeah, bro” 17-year-olds into battle-ready, confident professionals: pressed, shaped and critically-analyzed out for life-long career success. So as I enter into the final fortnight of my undergraduate degree, as my forays around campus acquire a tinge of near-nostalgia, it’s refreshing to see College Park out in reverse. Indeed, far from tidying up my non-existent professional portfolio or perfecting my job interview persona, I’ve set out upon a rather vain, infinitely juvenile mission which simply glows with man-child escapism.

I’ve recently dedicated myself to becoming one half of the most sickeningly cute couple of all time.

Not content with winning small scholarships for my high school’s future UMD students, nor with today’s front page phallic glory, this week has seen significant strides towards achieving this tongue-in-cheek loftiest of dreams. Sure there’s Brad and Angelina (or is there? I really couldn’t tell you), Rodin’s couple from “The Kiss,” or even Sonny and Cher, but this new flame and I are making ground fast. Last night, David, a lovable gay opera singer of a friend, was driven to near-physical rebuke at the jealousy our split-earphone Podcasted disco dance out of the metro station did invoke. And this afternoon—following my delivery of a rose and a purple peacock-feather ring—Her young boss whispered “SO CUTE!” as we sauntered out of the office in the direction of the city’s Congressional buildings.

Inextricably linked to all this, however, is the romance. The Fred Astaire/George Clooney/Jeff Buckleyization of my past three weeks has seen notable shifts in my psychological process. Mostly, this has taken the form of simple reductivism: where before I would plan ahead according to homework assignments, friends’ parties, meditation, sleep and the like, now there is 1. Time with Her, and 2. Time without Her. Where previously I would spend valuable commute time wading thoughtfully through my latest wannabe-music-critic playlist and browsing New Yorker articles, I now return to the one single collection of songs I created for her (our relationship was soundtracked and re-soundtracked by myself diligently over Thanksgiving), entitled: “Aussies Know Best.” And where haughty anti-consumerism once placed me above Holiday season fetishism, I now daydream endlessly about where more tweed could possibly fit best within her already achingly-hip wardrobe.

According to my guide points, we’re working at a steady clip between infatuation and perfection, balancing amicably on that thin line between “sickeningly cute” and simply “sickening.” Examples of text message highlights include the following:

”Also, I think you are cool. In addition, I like u a lot…”

Which I followed up the following early morning with:

“I think youre adorable.”

Email subject lines are even better (or worse, according to the audience): “Smitten” and “Cupcake” being the most egregious offenders. We trade Neruda quotes in between developing innovative theses on political philosophy, one of a startling array of mutual passions. After a disappointing year of dating half-leads, it appears that this self-deprecating writer has struck gold (literally, as in the color of her shoes). I find myself eyeing her curiously over dinner, silently shaking off the lingering disbelief at my stumbling upon such a well-informed, oppression-busting, fiendishly cute Wilco fan of an East Timor activist who “admits” to having a crush on me and actually enjoys my verbosity.

We haven’t quite reached Advanced level at kissing as we walk, but I justify that by arguing that a certain oft-neglected romance is found in the smear of saliva upon nose/cheek/shirt collar/lips.

Similarly, I attempted to give her Lesson #1 on the embattled artform of Australian English, but she declared a desire to continue pronouncing “Australian” in her rarified Phoenixian tongue.

“So sickening/ly cute!” I hear you say.

During T-WOH (Time Without Her), I am notified daily about the tangible glow her presence has provided my cheeks. Personal conversations—without challenge, and much like this entry—devolve into revelatory gushing sessions in which I blabber over everything from her Winona Ryder’s niece-like beauty to her remarkably progressive Christianity down to the name of her iPod (“W”). I smile that stupid-ass ear-to-ear grin at the slightest mention of her name. While volunteering at my Food Co-op, I even visualized her small face as I scooped deep-fried falafels out of the pot.

And to think, it’s only been three weeks. World domination already appears to be a foregone conclusion.

-------

On another note, Happy World AIDS Day. I made possibly my final appearance as a panel speaker for Student Global AIDS Campaign and Advocates for Youth, and will undoubtedly miss playing the small role I did within such outstanding civil society organizations.