I learned a whole new definition for double dating at Michigan Technological University where I went to college. It had nothing to do with going on a date with another couple. It had everything to do with the fact that there was only one girl for every 30 guys on campus, a statistic that was conveniently left out of the school catalog. It didn’t help that the campus was located in the City of Houghton, a defunct mining town in the remote woods of the Upper Peninsula. It was worst for us freshmen who naively arrived with high expectations of an exciting social life.
It didn’t take long to find out that double dating was a two-tiered system in which each girl averaged two dates on the same night. Her dates would take place on two shifts – the first shift and the late one. I was a lowly “first-shifter.” It was well known that a first-shifter was expected to return the girl to the dormitory no later than 8 p.m. They would always use a creative excuse such as “I’ve got knitting to do,” or “Sorry, I have to help my roommate squash bedbugs.” That was code for “I’ve got another date with a real man at 8:03 and I went out with you on a dare from my roommate and to get a free meal.” The popular guys, usually the athletes and frat rats, would get the coveted second shift. The rest of us, depressingly, got to watch reruns of “Kiss Me, Stupid” at the local theater.
I wondered if my choice of major was stunting my image. I had signed up to be a forestry major, which I knew nothing about. The full extent of my outdoor experience had been boy scouting, where I was demoted, along with my closest friends, to a special unit that that my flustered scoutmaster dubbed the Misfit Patrol. Predictably, we were booted from our scouting careers with no practical skills, such as lighting a match. I thought enrolling in forestry was a master stroke that would redeem me from my scouting failure and transform me into a macho Paul Bunyan-type that the college girls would adore. But I knew I was in trouble when my first forestry class required me to count deer poop while bouncing around on a peat bog. It had something to do with charting the migration of the herds. I couldn’t have cared less where the deer migrated, much less where they relieved themselves. Besides, I was smarting from the cold despite the mandatory woolen plaid jacket, floppy-eared nerd hat and mucking boots. My social status was doomed.
I didn’t give up, though. I figured I could sculpt myself into an alpha male by switching my major to liberal arts. I was betting that it would remake me into a poetic, mystical Shelley or Keats-type dude that would make the women swoon. I knew that wasn’t going to be enough, though. So I completed my masculine makeover by begging to join a fraternity. To get in, I had to endure an initiation called “Oh My Heck Week” (well, those weren’t the exact words). The ritual consisted of sophisticated male bonding stunts, with other suckers, such as flailing around in the snow with a slather of Skippy peanut butter freezing in our armpits. The fraternity life beefed up my limited prestige with the ladies but my grade point average plunged to record depths. Miraculously, I was able to wangle a diploma without having to forge one. Against all odds, I managed to dredge up enough skills to make a living. The best part was that I wouldn’t have to wear a woolen plaid shirt or a floppy-eared nerd hat for the rest of my life.
If you’d like to read more of my humor, feel free to check out my “More Stuff” page where I’ve provided links to several of my humor articles that were published in the Deseret News, Utah’s largest daily newspaper. You can also click on the “Humor” box below and all of my humor posts on this website will come up.
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