Illustration by Laura Diez de Baldeon Cerv
Ah, Valentine’s Day. The glorious celebration of romance and heart-shaped candies and crimson-colored roses is upon us once again. Tomorrow is the day when Cupid will come knocking, when you will swim in a very metaphorical chocolate fountain of love and time-honored promises, when oversized stuffed animals and frivolous greeting cards will accumulate at your doorstep, and most importantly, when Ryan Gosling will hang from a moving Ferris wheel for you ("Notebook" enthusiasts catch my drift). Unless you go to Columbia. For us, tomorrow will be Thursday.
It’s a complaint we’ve all heard before in one form or another: our campus is lacking in the lovey-dovey department. I will admit at the outset that I have participated in my fair share of commiseration sessions amongst girls about our generation’s decision to occupy a pathetically anti-romantic niche in the universe. These “pity parties,” which typically occur when our male counterparts would like to believe we are pillow-fighting in silk nighties, all conclude in a similar fashion: with the declaration that Columbia boys are without a single passionate bone in their bodies and that if it’s a fairytale love affair we seek, we ought to look elsewhere.
But what if it isn’t them? What if it’s us?
