BY AMBER ROSE

In print | Published February 19, 2009 — Updated December 19, 2011 13:05

Love is in the air. (Can someone open a window, please?)

Granny panties: the idea of them is not so bad. They’re comfy. They’re cost efficient. Hell, I can buy a six-pack at Target for like, two bucks. They’re white: the color of innocence. They’re thick: the consistency of my security blanket; they’re concealing: wouldn’t want to give anyone the wrong impression; and if I’m feeling festive I can even get the kind that come in pink pastel with the little flowers or Easter eggs. Granny-panties are the best! I (used to) wear them all the time to play basketball (in eighth grade). I (used to) buy them by the dozen in value packs at 50 cents a piece (back when the economy was good)! Who in their right mind would have anything negative to say about a fine pair of granny-panties?

Not I. I happen to be a fan of the double-wasted, cheek-concealing stretch briefs. I just happen to be of the opinion, however, that these baggy masses of white cotton should be confined to a specific venue: the GIRLS (7-16) DEPARTMENT of discount chain-retailers AND NOT in my FACE in the Kohlberg Coffee Bar.

I mean what is wrong with you people anyway? Can’t you watch a 90 minute play in LPAC (a play in which you must continually stand up and walk around the room) without wrapping your arms around your Muffin from behind her, giving her a constant neck massage and activating the gag-reflex of everyone within a two foot radius of you? Some of us are here to watch a play and were not expecting a soft porn warm-up on the sidelines. Detractors! All of you unabashed couples! Your affection should be buried, wrapped up and hidden, like the body of a comatose individual beneath layers and layers of impenetrable bandages.

So: back to the granny-panties at Kohlberg. Last week I fell victim to the most grotesque public display of affection I have yet to witness at Swarthmore. The encounter started off innocently enough. I met two good-natured Swatties sitting opposite me in the ring of couches. They were friendly. One of them sympathized with my pained bark-like coughing, and the other was heaving and hacking herself. “What good Samaritans!” I thought to myself, as I figured I had finally found some compassion at Swarthmore that wasn’t directed towards low-wage workers, or people of color, but rather my own (far more apparent and tortured) plight.

But just as I was thinking that these two “friends” would make for a nice addition to my Swattie circle, the female decided it would be a good idea to mount the male. “I am now officially uncomfortable,” I thought. Yet the male insisted on achieving the proper “angle” to rid his beaux of her coughing affliction. As he slapped her back and coaxed the cough out of his beloved, the two nuzzled and cooed and swayed back and forth to their own magical lullaby. I, on the other hand, recoiled farther into my curled up ball and hacked my lungs out into the cushion of the Coffee Bar couch. Writhing in a combination of pain and disgust, I glanced up only to catch a flash of the female’s baggy white undergarments hanging in the breeze for all to see. As a shudder passed through my body, I pondered over the allure of the granny-panties on a grown woman. Perhaps it’s a hipster thing, I thought, a mere ironic statement of one’s hyper-sexuality by means of dress in prepubescent fashion. “Pleeaase,” I winced, on the verge of tears, as my coughing spell continued, “Make it stop! Rid her of her granny-panties in a setting where you both can marvel at their splendor and yet no one else will be exposed!”

Overexposure to PDA in the confines of this Bubble can be that last centigram of weight that tips you toward your imminent death. Down, down you will tumble, inevitably onto a giant metal spike. You will be stuck there — impaled and in limbo — neither alive nor dead (but single and alone) for inordinate amounts of time. My fellow couples, especially my good friend, “Snuggles Mc. Open-Mouth-Kiss-at-the-Wok-Bar” and her “Bunny,” I write to you this week to ask but one favor: the next time you walk each other to class, leave space for Jesus. In fact, pretend you don’t even know each other. The next time you sit across from your friends at dinner, don’t nuzzle his muzzle, don’t give him kissies, and DEFINITELY don’t caress each other below the belt.

The love between couples at Swarthmore — no matter how deep or how profound you think it is — should be kept tightly under wraps; secret, in fact. You and your boyfriend should think of yourselves as secret agents — partners with alternate identities — friends who cannot publicly reveal their true affections, for the explosive effects of doing so would be so devastating to our delicate Bubble that, like the late Montague and Capulet, you will surely induce one of us to ingest poison.

“Oh, think twice. / It’s just another day for you and me in paradise.”
- from Phil Collins, “Another Day in Paradise”

Amber is a junior. You can reach her at email address removed at the request of the author.

« RETURN TO LIVING & ARTS

« PREV ARTICLE | NEXT ARTICLE »