Going the Distance
It’s Sex Week here at the Rival, and in the midst of my colleagues' fan fictions, rankings of the best places to have sex, and other sex-related gimmicks… I felt that it was only prompt if I weighed in something personal to me…
We live in a world that is ceaselessly running toward the next immediate satisfaction. College life, with its unrelenting rhythm of exams, parties, and fleeting connections, can seem like a perpetual rush to “get somewhere” without ever taking the time to feel the depth of where you are. But amidst this whirlwind of urgency, there exists a romantic anomaly—an anomaly that, in its very nature, transcends the immediacy of touch and proximity: I of course am referring to long-distance love.
I came into college with a high school girlfriend who had never heard of AU, made fun of the way my friends dressed, and was disgusted that our school didn’t have a football team. That’s why it wasn’t too surprising when she flew to California for school, or even less surprising when we broke up later that winter break. Maybe the infamous promise of the fabled “college experience” was simply too much for us to resist, maybe thousands of miles and different time zones actually proved to be too much baggage—both metaphorical and literal—to carry. No matter the reason, it just didn’t work out. I was “free,” as they say.
If there’s one thing dumber than getting into a long distance relationship in college, it’s doing it a second time. At least, that’s what most of my friends tried to tell me.
95% of long distance relationships in college fail—that isn’t actually true, but the fact that you believed me for a second is saying something. The odds are up against you when you take on this challenge; it's a mountain few travelers dare conquer, so I guess you can’t blame my friends for “looking out for me.” The cynic in me tells me something different though.
I like to think that romance in college is like a revolving door in many ways: a myriad of characters come into our lives just as quickly as they leave. I’m well aware that long distance relationships aren’t an exception. Yes, it could end. Everything could end. But so what? All love is a gamble. Long-distance is just the high-stakes table with the worst odds and the biggest payoff. Because if you survive it—if you emerge from the chaos—you won’t just have a relationship. You’ll have a story. And boy do I have a story…
It was the last weekend of February, sophomore year. For the first time in 2023 the forecast topped at 80 degrees, and as one may expect, college utopia ensued. The quad was littered with picnic blankets, where AU indies sat, tote bags over shoulders, content that they could finally bust out the pair of jorts they thrifted back home over winter break. Friend group politics had not yet reached their boiling points, and for a brief, flickering moment, AU actually seemed to not only develop, but embrace a hippie-esque identity. It’s hard to imagine things can get much better than they already are on days like this… and then Riley Robertson visited.
Riley flew in from her school in New Mexico to visit her best-friend from home, who also happened to be a close friend of mine. When Riley got to the quad, I didn’t really know how to conduct myself. I mean, how can you when a dreamy girl from New Mexico looks you dead in the eyes, extends her arms towards you, and asks if you want a hit of the joint she’s seductively smoking? She looked absolutely gorgeous, and it wasn’t the drugs talking.
Later in the weekend we found ourselves at a party. “Dress as something that shares the first letter of your name” was the theme. Riley wore a red dress and a cowboy hat, and quickly pronounced herself as “ranch dressing” across campus. In Centennial Hall, I was putting on the best, and only, suit I owned. I slapped on a pair of aviators and doused my hair with baby powder. I was going as Joe Biden.
After an evening of being pong partners and sharing glances from across the dorm, we snuck into a closet to smoke some of Riley’s New-Mexico-exclusive weed. I don’t remember much after that. And again, I swear it wasn’t because of the drugs. I don’t remember the song playing in the background, or where I was standing in the closet. I don’t even remember how we ended up kissing. Instead what I remember were the seconds right before. The undeniable anticipation that comes when you’re about to kiss the girl of your dreams can be an overwhelming cliche to navigate, but allowing yourself to get caught up in the story is one of the best decisions you can ever make. It feels “free,” as they say.
Throughout the course of the weekend, Riley and I kept finding our way back to each other. Whether it was meeting up behind the old science building after she saw SZA, or sharing a drunken Uber home from Pitchers, we just could not help but to keep writing our story.
That’s probably why it wasn’t too surprising when I told her that I loved her during her final night in DC, and perhaps even less surprising that I flew out to New Mexico a month later to ask her to become my girlfriend.
Earlier, I said that long distance love was the ultimate romantic gamble, but man, when you win, you’re set for life, not just with a good story, but one you can’t wait to wake up to everyday and keep writing.
And yet…
When I got back to DC, they still said it couldn’t be done. That the mileage will rot our hearts like a peach forgotten in the quad-day sun. They said, “Get real about it Joey, get serious, get… Tinder.” But they don’t know. Before I flew off to New Mexico just about everyone told me that it just wasn’t worth the gamble.
But I’d be damned if the love of my life goes to American University. I’m content with testing the waters on the other side of the country.
I love you Ri.