My friend group has survived the absolutely horrendous dating scene at our college by turning every male interaction into a legally binding relationship.
If you flirt once? Congrats, that’s your boyfriend.
If you spend the night or go to a date party together? Married.
If he got your number and never texted? That’s your ex.
That boy who drove me and my groceries home from Whole Foods one time? He will be naming our firstborn after me.
In a class like Tulane’s that’s 64% female, 36% male, and 13% reported as not straight, the odds are stacked against those of us who are playing heterosexual musical chairs. So we do what any rational woman would do with limited supply and unlimited delusion: we make the most of our slim pickings.
False Advertising With A Side Of Crawfish
Which is how, after months of late nights and casual campus hangouts, I decided a boy I was seeing was my pseudo-boyfriend and wasn’t surprised when he asked me on a real first date. He hyped up his restaurant choice for days, promising he had a reservation that would blow me away. We shared a shared favorite food: sushi. So I pictured something romantic — a candlelit California roll and some crispy rice.
The entirety of my friend group packed in my dorm room and each took on a distinct job: Zoe curled my hair, Charlotte curated an outfit, Skylar supplied conversation starters, Penny soothed my nerves, and everyone else floated between tasks, shouting opinions I didn’t ask for but needed. Then they stationed themselves at the little window at the end of our dorm hallway and pressed their faces into the glass as my date came to pick me up. He walked in and immediately made eye contact with 10 girls staring down at him through a completely transparent window.
On the way out, he plugged my ears when the Uber driver turned around to confirm our destination. Romantic? Mysterious? Serial killer-coded? Unsure. But it did spike my anticipation.
So imagine my confusion when his “blow me away” reservation turned out to be an open-air spot on the Westbank— picnic tables and a four-page menu that served everything. Not in a curated way, but in a ‘how are you offering all of this under the same decrepit roof?’
I had shown up dressed for sushi. Instead, I was in heels, sweating through my effortless first-date look — my favorite jeans, a borrowed black top, hair and make-up freshly done, the whole package — only to find myself sweating in Louisiana humidity, perched on a splintery bench. The menu hit the table smudged with grease, freckled with suspicious, sticky stains.
Staring at “fish filet,” “blackened shrimp,” and “roast beef,” I felt my anxiety spike because every option sounded like a gamble. My options quickly narrowed from the four-paged menu to the kids pasta and $6 house salad. The pasta came with cream sauce, which felt like a disaster waiting to happen, so I ordered the salad. The safest, blandest thing on the menu.
At least I would be a cheap date.
Meanwhile, he confidently ordered three pounds of boiled crawfish topped off with potatoes and sausage, unbothered by the prospect of cracking shells and sucking fish heads on a first date.
I picked at iceberg lettuce and he went to town on his mountain of crawfish. Nothing says romance like watching someone twist crustacean tails while you stab and shriveled cherry tomatoes.
After dinner, we went to the movies, where he washed down his crawfish breath with a slushie. I declined a sip of a blue raspberry Icee for the first time ever and instead, tucked under his arm, stress-ate buttered popcorn. The movie was fitting for the date — we were two of five in the theater and left halfway through. Truly an artistic metaphor for our connection.
I was expectedly welcomed home to all my friends waiting to hear about my date. They were excited, frantic, and starving for details, though of course they had been following my location and knew the outline before I opened my mouth. And my date immediately entered the friend group Hall of Fame. It was almost topped by these:
The Frat Boy To Indian Restaurant Formula
When Ella was asked out by a guy in her roommate’s boyfriend’s fraternity, she thought it might actually be fun. He suggested they grab dinner near campus— spontaneous, causal, low-pressure.
They walked past all the familiar spots and into an Indian restaurant filled with strobe lights and coincidentally another boy from his fraternity on a date. That’s when she realized this restaurant was more than a restaurant, it was a pipeline. Guys from his frat had been taking first dates there for years following the same script: spicy food then back to his place. It wasn’t about loving Indian food; it was about loving efficiency. The walk was close enough to his house (where he lived with 12 other boys from this pledge class), and the menu was confusing enough that he could “help” her order before sliding into the final step: “Want to come back to mine?”
The owner even came over to greet them and offered them day-old bagels from his unsuspecting side hustle. How the owner of an Indian restaurant is also running a bagel operation is beyond my comprehension, but it sealed the vibe; this place had seen things. His whole fraternity had run this exact play.
Without opening the menu, he ordered the extra spicy chicken tikka masala and tore through it. Ella, on the other hand, ordered chicken egg rolls and spent more time cutting them into tiny pieces and rearranging them than eating. Between his spice flex and her total loss of appetite, the meal dragged on in slow-motion awkwardness.
After they got back to his place, he immediately fell asleep on the couch. Ella took it as her cue to sneak out, saving herself from the aftermath of the spicy meal he demolished.
“Honestly, it was the best-case scenario,” she said. “I didn’t even have to make an excuse.”
A Margarita Miscalculation
Nicole met her date when he randomly stumbled into her basement at her college rental after a day of dartys. It was a random introduction that felt meant to be when he suggested her favorite Mexican restaurant for their first date. She’d been getting her hair done all afternoon and rushed straight from the salon — no time to grab a snack. That should’ve been no problem — she’d been dreaming about the infamous chips and dips the whole walk over.
When they sat down, he immediately ordered a round of margaritas. Then another. And another.
“I tried to hint towards splitting some appetizers,” Nicole said. “But he just kept ordering more drinks.”
Apparently, it was “cutting season” for him, so he wasn’t eating carbs or something. Meanwhile Nicole is starving, surrounded by tacos, drinking tequila on an empty stomach.
By the third round, her favorite restaurant was officially tainted by a guy who treated it like a solo margarita bar. She stumbled into home, made a bowl of pasta to absorb the alcohol and disappointment, and called it.“The margaritas were so strong,” she said. “But not strong enough to make me want to see him again.”
Reaction To Romance
Amelia thought a lunch date would be easy and low stakes. They met at a casual spot near campus, and she ordered a bowl with a dressing that looked clear and simple — usually a safe bet with her food allergies.
She didn’t ask about ingredients because she didn’t want to over-explain to her date who insisted on ordering and paying for them. Spoiler: she should have over-explained.
Halfway through the date between sharing her freshman year roommate horror story and explaining her go-to fun fact (“I’m a triplet”), her lips started tingling. Then her tongue and her dignity. The dressing had something she was allergic to, and the date pivoted from “getting to know you” to “staying alive” with terrifying speed.
“I had to excuse myself, FaceTime my mom, take Benadryl in the bathroom, and then come back and try to act normal while my face puffed up.”
There was no second date; she figured if he couldn’t handle an allergic reaction, he definitely could not handle a relationship. When her face was noticeably puffy and her lips started really tingling, he uselessly panicked and stared at her for far too long before asking if she was “like…okay” and offering his water as if hydration could solve anaphylaxis. Amelia now warns every server about her allergy, and if a man ever insists on ordering for her again, he can, but only after he learns how to use her EpiPen. Lucky for all her future dates, he lowered the bar to “doesn’t poison me”.