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BY BENJAMIN CAMP

In print | Published April 17, 2003

According to official Swarthmore College statistics, a ridiculous number of Swarthmore alumni marry other Swarthmore alumni, hence the Quaker Matchbox. In Perpetuating the Quaker Matchbox, Benjamin, a potential third-generation victim, will be set up on a series of blind dates in an attempt to get married before graduation. Other parties in question will be fully informed of the nature of the date before agreeing to the setup, and there will be absolutely no funny stuff.

Swarthmore blooms on parents’ weekend. Free food is everywhere, pleasant administration lurks around every corner and Sharples doesn’t suck. Good times. There’s nothing I love more than a healthy dose of adults mixed in with my wild teenage life 1 . Just wild. For example, last week I shaved a Labrador retriever, buttered it, and punted it around Upper Tarble like a gigantic game of air hockey without the air and with more butter. I can’t do that kind of thing with adults 2 .

This week’s date comes out of respect for that sacred bond, the family. I spent the full weekend courting a lovely young lady named Usha. She’s a very nice woman. She’s a gynecologist. She was born in Gwalior, India. She’s the mom of Neal Dandade ’06.

You’re probably thinking, “I don’t think this will work, what with the age difference, the lack of shared interests, the basic incompatibility of personality, and the fact that, for all intents and purposes, she’s already married.” Well, love transcends, you pessimistic son of a bitch. Besides, after a weekend with Neal’s mom, I’m pretty sure she was diggin’ me. I am, after all, very, very hot 3 .

We first decided to meet at the group session with Bob Gross, Al Bloom and the provost. It went something like this:

Ben: Hey, Neal’s mom!

Neal’s mom: You are the most attractive man I have ever seen.

Ben: Thanks!

Bob Gross: Ben, you are the meaning of Swarthmore.

The provost: Hey, what do I do around here anyway?

After determining that no one, in fact, knows what the provost does, Neal’s mom and I began discussions of our compatibility. She has a maturity not often found among Swarthmore students that I found particularly alluring. Also, her medical training will allow our future children to live healthy and vigorous lives.

Neal, I’m your father 4 .

After the trip to the zoo, the hot air balloon, the limousine tour of New York City, the backpacking trip through Europe and the precious time we spent working together in the Peace Corps, our weekend was nearing its end. I realized it was time to say the words that Usha so desperately wanted to hear.

“Usha Dandade,” I said, pausing for dramatic effect, “I am, contrary to appearances, the emperor of Japan.” This phrase, so often successful on less worldly women 5 , didn’t even faze this beauty. I didn’t know what to do. I was stunned. So I went to my default response to women.

“Will you marry me?”

I know you’ve been reading along since I yelled at you the first time and have decided that, deep down, you knew all along, in your heart of hearts, that this was the one. This time, the answer would be yes, and celebration could be the reason for draining the bottle of Absolut 6 . I know, I thought that, too. Neal’s mom? Had to be a sure thing. Her answer was simple, but it cut to the center of my soul.

“Sure! I’d love to. Oh. No, wait. Hold on. I’d hate that more than an eternity of torture in the fiery bowels of Lucifer, forever trapped in a sea of unthinkable agony. How could I have mixed those two things up? Weird.”

And so, dear reader, one more attempt at lifelong commitment has fallen short. But do not despair! Actually, you’re free to despair. I don’t mean to stop you from despairing if that’s what you’re into 7 . It’s not my thing, but to each his or her own. Peace out.

1 This statement laced heavily with sarcasm.

2 Too much surface area.

3 Tell your friends.

4 Trojan man just wasn’t my hero that day.

5 Read: Freshman.*

*Ha, ha, just kidding, ha ha! The freshmen don’t love me either. Ha. Ha. Loneliness consuming soul.

6 I’m told the results from that last post-date alone session were drunktastic. 7 Seriously, despair on. Despair it up. Despair away. Just despair it. Despair. It’s what’s for dinner.

Benjamin Camp is a sophomore. You can reach him at bcamp1@swarthmore.edu.

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