SENIOR VIEWPOINT After Years of Trying, I’m Still Left Out of the Game By Ory Abramowitz

Ory Abramowicz/The Hoya Even in uniform, Ory’s not a player.

You know what Georgetown looks down on? Non-lacrosse players. When I came to Georgetown, I thought I would be getting constant play 24/7. I mean, look at what the entertainment industry tells us about college. I know because I became the expert on movies that display college men walking to class with blonde and scantily-clad college ladies floating around them and begging to get a piece. All a guy has to do is wink at a girl and she falls into his lap, right? Nope, that only happens if you play lacrosse. (Props to you guys . I hate you all.) Let’s face it though; I’m no Freddie Prinze, Jr. While in the movies, he’s double-teaming every girl and their roommate, my experience has happened like this: I see a girl, ask her out, we go on a date, I attempt a follow-up, and she says no! I’ve become a one-date wonder. Let’s look at the love life of Ory Shlomo Abramowicz (what girl wouldn’t want to date a guy with a sexy name like that?).

Freshman year seemed near bliss. I was going out with this one girl and I seriously thought I was in love. I mean it took two weeks and here was a beautiful and funny girl that spoke French – even my Parisian father was proud. Nevertheless, she had the audacity to cheat on me, again and again. And you know what’s worse? I let her come back! Well, after the first Georgetown summer I was done; kicked her out the door and made her transfer schools. Who was the man now? That was a big mistake. Sophomore year presented me with a quick semi-relationship that made me think that I was on a roll. All I had to do was smile and I’d get Jane Hoyas. Well, after a brief stint in LXR I hit a wall. But you know how people say they hit a wall and don’t really mean it. I really hit a wall, like the kind that you can’t even dream of climbing over. Well maybe you can dream about it, but it never really happens. That wall was the damn near end of me. Georgetown girls were not kidding around.

I sought solace in friends and Chinese homework. Do you know what kind of consolation they offer? I can discuss American politics with native Chinese but can’t ask a girl out in English. And in regards to my friends, I should have just recorded them saying, “Don’t worry, next year, we’ll be upperclassmen!” Here comes play, I thought.

Junior year. I finally emerged out of the squalid dorm room conditions. I was a big bad college man ready to make use of his apartment. Apartments don’t impress the ladies any more than small rooms, though. I had a few little trysts, nothing worth devoting more than a few sentences.

There was one major highlight to junior year though: allergies. To those of you who don’t suffer from allergies, you’re really missing out. Junior year was the climax of this incessant seasonal disease. And what’s worse than sneezing uncontrollably and having eyes puffed up to such an extent that you can’t even see the girls you so long for? Knowing that while buff guys strutted their stuff on Healy Lawn and beautiful girls tanned out there displaying their natural talents, (who knows who’s trying to impress whom?) I had to literally run for my life from room to class in order to avoid the menacing pollen.

On top of it all, I neither owned a pair of Reef sandals, sported a six-pack nor could devote time for relaxation on an area of campus that became so popular for its spring mating rituals; all integral devices in Joe Hoya’s pursuit of the fairer sex. But again, my friends chimed in, “Next year we’ll be seniors, and girls go crazy because they want to get in everything before they leave.”

The jewel in the crown: senior year. Champs was the best thing that had ever been created in the Western Hemisphere. Well, Champs and a mix of alcohol. This lethal combination allows you to get the courage to grind to both Marvin Gaye and Usher while moving it on the dance floor. But those guys who stood on the sidelines always went home with the girls, and I would end up walking back with a roommate or taking “PatheticRides” back to T St. So at school, I turned to older and classier women, but alas, that professor was already engaged.

Here’s a last hurrah for all you Jane Hoyas (you know who you are). As Senior Week approaches, and as Freddie walks away with the girl of his dreams, don’t you think it’s time to give Jason Biggs his due?

Ory Abramowicz is a senior in the School of Foreign Service and a former member of The Hoya’s Editorial Board.

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