Therefore, in a wave of sentimentality and misappropriated loyalty, I went to the S.O. Web site, and signed up to be an official, card-carrying Significant Other.
And heard nothing in return.
Karma, perhaps? Or maybe those ladies and gentlemen who are proud to be half of a business-school couple had gotten word of my cynicism and mockery, of my repugnance of the label, and of my eagerness to doff it. In any case, I am miffed, with absolutely no good reason to be other than the fact that I am a hypocritical baby who made a huge, smelly stink about not wanting to be labeled, and I am now upset that I can’t get MIT to label me. It’s a little psychological push-me-pull-you game that I normally like to play in an effort to torture myself and my paramours. But it’s not supposed to backfire.
I want you to want me, MIT. Significantly.
— Sara Faith Alterman
Join? Hell, I’ll lead
Hello, my name is Kara — K-A-R-A — and my husband is a business-school student at Babson College. I’ve been coping with this for about 18 months. And, you know, I have good days and I have bad days. I hit my rock bottom when a photo of him wearing a wig, a pink thong, and a zebra-print miniskirt appeared in ads for the campus transgender club. That’s when I knew I had to turn my life — our life — around, somehow. He was crying out for attention. He needed an intervention.
So in an effort to be more supportive, I’m taking positive steps toward repairing the marriage. I’ve decided to apply for the position of social chair for Babson’s “Partners Club.” Up until now, when it came to his education, my husband and I have been anything but partners. When he’d come home at night, brimming with enthusiasm over supply-and-demand curves or recruitment fairs, I’d hiss at him and demand a foot rub. (Of course, when he wanted to discuss the sexual drama unfolding between an exchange student and a dead-eyed Midwesterner in a nearby study group, I was always quite alert and, yes, even a bit gossipy. I regret this shallow behavior now.)
Let me explain my callous acts. There’s a history here. I stopped taking math in 11th grade. My last foray into the frightening world of numbers occurred in college, when I took a class involving drawing geometric designs on construction paper and going on shape-finding field trips to the library. I barely got a B. And even though those days of mathematical incompetence are behind me, they’ve never truly left me.
I still feel somewhat out of place during Babson gatherings. In fact, sometimes I liken myself to the star of a Discovery Channel show on deadbeat anti-capitalist freaks. After all, I work for myself. I’m a writer. I’ve never used an Excel spreadsheet. The only thing I’ve been recruited for lately is an abs makeover. And the idea of working in groups makes me want to bite someone.
But maybe this merely makes me a regular person — an inexperienced person with flaws and baggage, just like you. I think you can relate to me. And so, I humbly share my application here.
