Do you think you've been in St Andrews too long? I do. To the point in which I feel abnormal when I'm away, and although I see my life here as probably the least stable aspect of my existence, it is also the most reassuring one.
Oh, but how to define life in St Andrews? We like to joke about it; "This is just a huge madhouse". And yet, this seems not far from the truth at all. I live in a place where flying off to New York or Dubai for the weekend is as casual as buying milk at the supermarket. We've seen it all; girls making out with lamp-posts in broad daylight, guys hunting in three-piece suits and Hunter wellies, people in animal onesies for no particular reason. I couldn't think of any other place where such a random, varied, and just seriously weird array of people could cohabit to the extent that we do here. Because that's the fun part: you get to rub shoulders with these people, day in day out. I'll be sitting in a lecture next to a girl who's upset about reading Paradise Lost because it puts her ultra-Christian beliefs into question, while the South Londoner in front of me loudly narrates her sexual endeavours to her friend. Am I to blame for developing strange syndromes? I don't think so.
Third year lesbianism is one of them. Yes, you all know who I'm referring to here... We are the couple of weirdos permanently glued to the couch, watching old re-runs of Glimore Girls with a bowl of cereal and hot water bottles tucked underneath our blankets. Our lives have become so intrinsically similar that we are already making plans of finding a masters programme in Uppsala University, moving in together and buying a bunch of cats. That is, if our plans of Oxbridge fail us (we aren't too keen, in any case, I mean, a three hour bus ride separating us? Unthinkable!). Yes, the prospect of creating this big happy family with my Swedish counterpart gives me warm, fuzzy feelings inside. Only problem is, I'm really not into girls. And I'm not being sarcastic by saying it's a problem; it's a big, big problem. You see, St Andrews has a very limited selection of men; they're either taken or gay, and those that aren't taken, aren't taken for a reason. If I could, I wouldn't at all mind following the instincts inspired by my newly developed syndrome. We would get married, buy the perfect house, paint the living room a colour that isn't Magnolia.
Although learning to survive as a sufferer of third year lesbianism has been difficult and, mostly, very undignified, I have to say it comes with its benefits. For one, not being drawn into the crazy drama that is the St Andrews dating world seems, at most times, a huge plus. When venturing beyond the realm of our living room, I have spent some of the most lovely times in St Andrews so far. I only have all my friends to thank for this; it's been a good year.
As a particularly big fan of whining, however, I feel compelled to start this blog, and to give myself a space where I can collect all the loose ends that I've accumulated in these three years. Bring on the brief-case psychos, the yahs and the Africa girls; I'm squeezing all that I can out of the time I've got left here.
No comments:
Post a Comment