Fashion #4: Yeah, I wear a speedo.

People like athletes. They are a tad like airline pilots, military personnel and Carrie Underwood in that few have anything negative to say about them and their good faith and humor is almost universally assumed. Some of my less athletically minded friends have considered introducing themselves as athletes to girls, just to get more positive attention. When asked how he would answer an inquiry about what sport he plays, one of my more innovative friends answered he would brush it off with a "you know, the one with the ball and the points that requires great feats of physical prowess." Yeah, that one.

It may be because people like to watch those who are in shape perform at their best. Or maybe it's just that people are awed and intrigued by all those impressive feats. It could also be that people like the thrill of a being in a cheering stadium, the shocked feeling of seeing someone stomped to a pulp, or the tingling butterflies they get in their tummies when a hush falls over the crowd at the climax of a game.

So when people ask me what I do, I bring up my best feature first. I confess that the first thing I tell them is that I am a swimmer. It usually works well for a few moments. The other person is impressed that I would devote so much time to swimming back and forth in a body of water with no one chasing me and they ask about how many people I've seen drown.

Then comes the test. There is no foolproof profession or extra-curricular activity. Lawyers may be wealthy, smart and well dressed, but their ethics put them in the same category as the smaller members of the Mustelidae family. Plumbers may work hard and have strong bodies, but their salaries and close proximity with "ewwey" substances makes their work imperfect. For extra-curricular activities, members of the debate team may be intelligent and have good prospects for the future, but their meager social skills and utter nerdiness balance out these qualities. Jocks may compensate for the deficiencies of debaters, but they carry their own liabilities.

Turns out, there are two types of people in the world. The ones who ask a swimmer what his favorite stroke is and the ones who ask if you wear a Speedo. Invariably, on a bad day, it will be the latter. The conversation usually goes like this:

"Do you actually wear a Speedo?"

"Well, if you mean Speedo brand, yes." [note, the question is left unanswered]

"Whew, for a second I though you were, uh, one of those kind of people..." [laughs]

"Well, I kind of am. I prefer to call it a competitive suit." [gulps]

"Wait; say what?"

But for a swimmer, wearing a suit isn't a fashion statement. It's a tool for speed. The electrician doesn't remove a pair of pliers for its aesthetic appeal; rather he worries about how well it will snip a wire. Similarly, we swimmers are not concerned about our apparel - until, of course, a friend asks the fateful question.

My new approach is to make like Billary and avoid the question entirely. I talk about how full body suits are becoming the norm for professional athletes (you know, the clothes that Jessica Alba wears to parties?) and start to talk about the greats in our activity. Heck, I'll even get into a conversation about my sister's music before I answer the speedo question straight up.

But just because we're athletes doesn't mean we never think about how we look. Just stop at a finish sometime and watch the guys and girls adjust their hair after a race and we most definitely still care about our tan lines.

Blessed be the Busy

Political science class starts at 10:00, but the real education begins 15 minutes before that as students gather outside the door to chew the fat, compare gossip and generally mingle. At these impromptu meetings of self-interested students (not meant in the pejorative sense), derelicts like me relearn the fundamentals of human interaction. Like the good student I am not, I notice trends in conversation and am beginning to discern some social and discourse virtues.

Before class yesterday, after Drake and I exchanged pleasantries and cash (I owed him for a lost sports bet and he owed me because I didn't go out with his sister; the balance had me paying), I asked what was new in his life.

"Man, I've been so busy lately, you know?" Drake didn't strike me as the kind of student who over-commits himself, so I didn't really know what he meant. But before I could ask a clarifying question, the conversation turned to the Cowboys-Packers game and why the @#$%^&* NFL wouldn't allow such an amazing sporting event to be put on broadcast TV.

Lindsey and Nate arrived moments later, looking a little too friendly, and had a similar refrain.

"So sorry I didn't send you that article I promised. I just got so busy with everything." Nate was referencing an article on Ron Paul which compared the 10 term congressman to Mitt Romney and Mike Huckabee in a key primary state. I kind of wanted to read the article and had noticed when Nate didn't send it. Thinking back on how Nate and Lindsey entered, I thought I might know what had kept Nate busy. Outwardly, I shrugged.

Lindsey had an apology as well. She'd missed the week's study group saying she was "just too busy trying to catch up" and wanted me to send her my notes.

More students joined our circle. Trevor (a poorly adjusted, heavily acned, tall kid with radical ideas about the role of people in government), James (a devout atheist) and Carrie (yes, that Carrie) already had a conversation going and, from what I gathered at the back end, James was complaining about his school schedule next year, saying that as busy as he was this semester pulling decent grades would be nigh unto impossible.

At each expression of busyness, those listening reacted with expressions of sympathy and general assent. The non-verbal message was "I know what you mean" and "life is a 200-pound dumbbell wrapped around your legs as you are thrown into the Marianas Trench."

But I said I was a student. While, I came into the discussion with a preconceived notion on the merits of busy, I came to find that my classmates were right. Busyness is a virtue.

Most of the time, when people ask me what I've been up to or why I am unavailable for some social event, I answer something like this:

"TV. Lot's and lots of TV. I am even watching shows I don't care that much for. The other day, I sat through almost an hour of ads and the show on the other end was canceled. You?"

OR

"I can't. I have to make money. I value money and the process of making it more than I value our friendship. But I still value our friendship a lot. Actually, making money is a good thing. Life is like money - it's useless if you don't spend it. In other news, I've been taking financial advice from M.C. Hammer. So, I'll be working instead of spending time with you.

OR

"I've been dating around. You know, one night here one night there. Pretty recreational, actually. I treat the opposite gender like a jungle gym and that's why I didn't get you that paper on time."

It is beginning to dawn on me, through the gel in my hair and the thick skull encasing by brain, that maybe these kinds of answers are not socially virtuous; I should just play like a phone and put up a busy signal.

There is one other cardinal virtue I would be remiss if I didn't share with you, the faithful FCN few. That is the virtue of fatigue. He who is tired can do no wrong. Make a dumb mistake at work? You were tired. Forget to phone your mom on her birthday? You were suffering from absolute exhaustion. Call your friend a bad word? Really, no-sleep in days kinda tired.

Instead of saying "heck, I forgot, sorry" or "you know, I totally mismanaged my time this weekend," you say you're wasted. And all is forgiven.

If you really need to run interference, you can use them both in conjunction. "I was really busy this weekend and super tired with everything." The deeper in trouble you find yourself, the more details you should give about what kept you busy. But make sure that these details are socially valuable activities (volunteering at the animal clinic, taking care of your baby sister or rescuing baby seals at the poles) and steer clear of any entertainment related answer, no matter how true it is.

All people really want to know is that even though you spat in their face socially, you still give a care; that their plight is high on your list of priorities, even though you just blatantly shelved it. Now we know how this can be accomplished easily through the deployment of a simple, four-letter word.

Part Four: “You Will Never Learn”

For a few minutes after Carrie agreed to accompany me to one of our town’s better steakhouses for dinner, I felt strong feelings of elation and relief: Elation because Carrie had said “yes” and relief because she hadn’t said “no.” But I didn’t get much time to enjoy these emotions because my overactive mind began thinking about the ramifications of the commitment I'd made.

Yes, I’d made a date for dinner, but maybe Carrie would think of it as more than that. To me, dinner is a meal. Fifty bites, 70 swallows (if you count the beverage) and a little conversation. Sounds like a song, no? To Carrie, a nice meal with some charming company might be suggestive of something more; something more permanent and lasting. Maybe she would cling to me thereafter like cheap aftershave and never let me live my own life. Maybe I was signing a stalker request and ruining my love life ever after. I know, not really losing anything, but maybe it would tip my hand too much and give Carrie the ammunition to really hurt me.

But who was I kidding? How could I possibly be engaging enough to entertain someone through an entire meal, especially someone as engaging as Carrie? Maybe she would get more enjoyment out of looking in a mirror the whole time. Maybe she would never want to talk to me again. Or maybe she would sick her 120 pound male companion after me.

That's a lot of maybes for two paragraphs. Dang Bentham's utiles.

To help assuage my concerns, I checked the FCN comments page from Part 3 of this series and, to be perfectly honest, studied the reader comments like class notes before a mid term. Some of the advice was perfectly absurd. Go roller blading, don't schmooze her and don't do anything stupid are great rules of thumb unless you happen to be me. Rollerblading is out of the question, stupidity is inevitable and Schmooze is my middle name (it's German).

Other bits of advice were just reasonable enough to drive me to action. So much so that by the time yesterday evening rolled around, I had seen Hitch, practiced pouring coke without spilling, opened the door a million times for my mother, built a cake and, yes, checked rFCN.

I was so ready for the date, all the wild steeds in Wyoming couldn't keep me from making the evening a success. But Carrie could.

As I've mentioned before, my prior interaction with Carrie was very brief. All I really knew her by was my own hormone driven infatuation and our conversations had never lasted more than a few minutes. For all of you out there who have never been in a one-on-one dating situation, conversations need to last longer than a few minutes or things get really awkward. At least I think.

But with Carrie, things got awkward even before our conversation expired.

"Hey Carrie! So good to see you!" Our table was three paces from the door, so I rushed over to open it when I saw her coming. Apparently she neither saw me coming, nor the door opening, since it swung into her with a rapidity unbecoming hardwood and some part of her face emitted an abrupt squishy sound as flesh came in contact with machine. Not good.

"I can open the door myself, silly. Goodness. Clumsy oaf." Carrie had a way with words.

There was no blood, but her forehead had a nasty bruise that looked like it was itching to swell. The kitchen brought out some ice and I kept apologizing until the waiter came to take our order.

Only then, after I had selected my favorite item from the menu, did Carrie actually engage in serious, non accusatory conversation.

Carrie and 120 pound nerd just broke up. I would recount the long and painful circumstances that precipitated this separation, but that's neither here nor there. Suffice to say that the story is long and emotional. And that Carrie is pretty torn up about it.

Picture me, across the table from an exceedingly attractive young woman for whom I hold a skin deep interest that may very well flourish into something more genuine, listening to an episode of Days. This wasn't a chick flick, this was chick torture.

The more Carrie talked, the more she seemed to cling.

Carrie told me about her love life, her needs, her idiotic ex, her school, more about the jerk of an idiotic ex, the problems with boys in general, the problems with boys in specific, especially with regard to the jerk of an idiotic ex, etc. In return, she found out I like my steak medium rare.

I was Jimmy Stewart at a meeting of the Red Hat Society.

But other than Carrie's incessant verbal diarrhea, the evening wasn't so bad. In fact, I could see a very one sided relationship developing. On dates, one of us would talk, the other eat. Carrie could dump her emotional problems on my lap and I would do relationship dog duty.

My imaginative reverie was broken by the soft buzzing of my shell phone in my right hip pocket. At first, I thought the call was from one of my guy friends wanting to set up a run or maybe from my brother asking how the date went. Hey, man! Date is still in progress! I help up my finger to pause Carrie and glanced at the name on the screen: Luce.

Luce!

She'd said she didn't want to talk with me anymore. She'd shunned me after our disastrous encounter, and rightly so. Why in the world was she calling? Did a renewed crush for me drive her to the phone? And why call now of all times?

With an apologetic "I've gotta take this" look, I answered the phone. That was the mistake that made me lose Carrie.

Luce was sorry she had acted like a sophomoric twit (my words) and wanted to go out again. She still had a crush on me and wanted to know about the new Brad Pitt western in theaters. Was I interested?

Was I interested? Present company included, I had pretty much struck out on every date I'd tried. Luce was giving me another chance at feminine redemption.

That's when I realized that Carrie had gone from lost in her recantation of woe to completely focused on our conversation. When I hung up the phone after five minutes of talking, Carrie asked me sharply: "Who was that?"

"Well, uh, well, let's see..." The fact I had euphorically shouted Luce's name when I picked up the phone and given my verbal consent for a date next week eliminated most of the nondamaging lies. So I told the truth.

Ballistic is too contained a word to describe Carrie's reaction. Apparently going out on a date with some girl while scheduling one with another one doesn't fly in her book. So she left.

The cold outside air that was swept in by the closing hardwood door served as a rationalizing force and I didn't follow her outside. Those at the adjacent tables had already witnessed enough of a scene.

So that was Carrie. I'll see her in class on Tuesday and maybe we can patch things up. Maybe. But I doubt it. A girl like her can have her pick and there are plenty of other welterweight dweebs who will lineup for some attention.

For now, I've got a date with Luce to look forward to and a severely battered ego to patch up. Oh yeah, my fortune cookie read "YOU WILL NEVER LEARN." Depressing, but true.

Part Three: 'The Greatest Danger Could Be Your Stupidity'

I grew the nerve and asked Carrie out. She accepted. I am freaking. We are going out later this week. Any advice???

Part One: 'Never Let An Opportunity Pass You By'

There is a girl I like at school. Not “like” like or anything terribly mushy, but I really enjoy talking with her and she is amazingly pretty. She’s inhale sharply and clear your calendar kind of pretty. She is “how in the world did God make something this pretty” kind of pretty. She is ... okay, she's a terribly mushy sort of pretty. That didn't sound right, so I'll abandon the visual descriptions and move on.

We’ll call her Carrie, since that’s a close approximation of the name she gave me when we met a week ago in line to take collegiate placement tests. She speaks Spanish and was bemoaning the inconvenience of sitting through a language exam when she already knew her skill level. My agreement started a conversation which covered everything from heritage to plans for school (she’s half Italian and is majoring in International Studies). We didn’t get a chance to exchange contact information, but she assured me that we would “probably run into one another in class.”

Carrie was right. Not a week after our first meeting, I found myself on the other side of a small classroom from her, listening to a lecture on Plato’s critique of democracy. I’ve read the Republic and consider myself a regular advocate of the philosopher king concept, so the lecture had little new to offer. I spent most of the hour, conjuring up various ways to look at Carrie. I caught her eye once and drew out a gorgeous smile of recognition. I considered that delightful grin just reward for the effort I'd exerted.

During a break, I maneuvered across the room and said hi. Carrie told me she’d passed her exams easily and we shared a laugh over the easy language questions which helped to “place” us. Then – foolish, foolish me – I asked about her class schedule. Nobody wants to talk about how they have mister or misses so-and-so for Econ and the tall guy without any fingers for political science. I tried to cover my mistake by asking questions about her teachers, but she remembered hardly any of them and I could tell she was growing bored of the conversation. I concluded it and went back to my seat, mentally kicking myself because I hadn’t asked her out.

Class ended after one of the longest forty-five minutes I had ever experienced; how many times did we have to hear a definition of “philosophy?” But the excruciation finally ground to a halt and I headed for the front of class to sign up for an assignment. I figured I would see Carrie at the front, ask if she had an opening for lunch sometime and exchange contact information. But reality hardly mirrored my plans.

Carrie had already signed up for the assignment and was out the door before I could write "Nigeria," which is, by the way, what I wrote. I charged after her, but when I got to the door, I saw something that was as deflating as it was familiar: Carrie was walking along with another guy. And, to make matters worse, her escort was the class nerd, a low expression introvert with a sandpaper voice. I’d never caught his name, but he had apparently caught Carrie’s.

For a split second, I thought about running after the pair and inviting Carrie out anyway, but that would have been a blatant violation of the masculine code of conduct. Instead I just stood dejected as they marched into the warm early afternoon.

As I watched, I noticed something about Carrie. She looked genuinely happy. She was making emphatic gestures and laughed a couple of times at something the nerd said. She seemed to be enjoying herself with this guy. Maybe, I thought, it was meant to be; maybe I was trying to butt into a situation that demanded my respect and distance.

But then again, my interest wasn’t necessarily romantic. I just wanted to get to know her. She could continue whatever relationship she was developing with the nerd while doing a lunch with me.

I continued thinking about the situation while chewing on some unkosher sweet and sour pork at my favorite Chinese eatery. My thoughts were jumbled and disorganized until I opened my fortune cookie at the end of the meal. There, in bold red lettering, was the answer I was looking for:

NEVER LET AN OPPORTUNITY PASS YOU BY

I folded the message carefully and slipped it into my duct tape wallet. These were words to live by; uninspired but still profound.

Carrie and I have a whole semester of class together and our majors are similar, so we may be interacting as students for a couple of years. But Mid-Term 1 is just around the corner, and I think I know who I will be inviting to my study group.