In my sophomore year, I enrolled in a class on existentialism. The first thing the professor said as he walked into the classroom was directed to me: “My god, you’re the most wholesome looking individual I’ve ever seen.” And I was branded as such for the rest of the semester, for the rest of the year.
His statement didn’t make much sense to me, not seeing myself through his eyes. I felt judged, I felt wronged, I felt the eyes of my classmates sizing me up. What did he know of me? Nothing. This was the first time I’d ever seen the man and the first time he laid eyes on me. He knew nothing of my endeavors and adventures. And yet, he did. But what did it matter? Why was it that I took this so seriously? Why did I see it as an insult, rather than an observation? One man’s opinion out of thousands—it shouldn’t have bothered me, but it did. Unknowingly he had caused an existential crisis without even beginning the day’s lecture.
What did it mean to be wholesome? To look wholesome? Traditionally, it means to be sound in body, mind and morals, but what about in the context of modern culture? It meant I was the nice girl. One of the guys. Glossed over, forgotten. The friend. I can patch your jeans and beat you in MarioKart. I can go to the hockey game with you, but you won’t be going home with me on Friday night. Being wholesome means that the boys you want to date and the boys who want to date you won’t—because they are intimidated by your morals. Or put off by them.
“I could never date her, she’s not experienced.” How do you get the experience if no one will make a move? Being wholesome means that people love you from afar, and a few years and a few too many cocktails later the truth comes out. How many times in my life am I supposed to get drunken phone calls, Facebook messages and texts from old high school friends professing their love to me? “I was in louve with you.” “I’m in love with yoU” “Lookign back, I wish I wuold ahve done sumthing about it.” What am I supposed to do with that? These are my questions.
A friend once said to me that there are the girls you marry and there are the girls you screw. And that the former group is the group in which you should aspire to be. Because at the end of the day, a friend is better than a screw. At the end of the day you want a girl who respects herself and her body. Of course, this friend never seemed to be able to find the former, and instead took solace in the latter and the latter and the latter. I guess he wasn’t one to lead by example. A sort of do as he says, not as he does type of guy.
But I couldn’t be mad with him. I understood his argument and I understood his actions. Because how can you really tell the difference between the two? An executive for Playboy once said that a promiscuous person is someone who is getting more sex than you are. And really, that about sums it up. Who is to say what is promiscuous to you is as scandalous to me? Who is to say that having multiple sexual partners is a bad thing? If I respect myself, if I respect my body, if I use protection and discretion—who are you to pass judgment on me? And who are you to decide which type of person I am? The naughty or the nice—why can’t I be both?