'Find A Date? At Harvard?'

WHEN I came to Harvard, I expected it to be like "Love Story." I would be Jenny (only a longer-lived version) and I would find my Oliver. It hasn't happened.

Maybe I'm just projecting, but as far as I can tell, the typical Harvard student is repressed and sexually frustrated. We walk around buckling under the weight of our backpacks, jerking upright when we sense an attractive peer nearby. "Where? Where?" we all ask.

"Oooh, look at that babe!"

"Must not go here."

We're all complainers and whiners. "Radcliffe women are ugly dogs," I hear. "Too smart, you can't trick them."

According to the guys across the hall, the term for Radcliffe women has been contemporized to "Heinous Bush Pig."

And Harvard men? Too immature, oversexed, ugly, unwilling to commit. The wise woman doesn't trust a Harvard man any farther than she can throw him.

We complain about the pool of potential partners, yet all year we stalk each other. We wander in circles, telling ourselves that our sexual frustrations, our weekly Store 24 binges and our raving tantrums about our pathetic sex lives are the fault of Them--our classmates. If only we had normal men/women here, I wouldn't have these problems.

We seek solace in Wellesley, MIT, food and drink.

UNTIL spring. The season of lounging on the grass, blowing off work and falling in love is here.

It must be me. Everyone around me seems to be affected by it--except me, that is. How else to explain why all of a sudden, when walking through the Yard, I see dozens of couples holding hands and cooing at one another.

It's disgusting. What happened to their integrity, to our bond of mutual sexual frustration? Why am I the only one not walking arm in arm, locked at the lips with someone?

In the past week, three good friends of mine have started "dealing." All within two days of one another.

Traitors.

We binged, whined and complained together about the sorry state of men and women here. And now they're taking walks, going out to dinner and talking on the phone for hours with the objects of their affection. I feel betrayed.

Now, the only loyal people I can bond with are the guys across the hall. If you knew them, you'd realize how pathetic and desperate I am. These beer guzzlers swear that they view women only as sex objects and figures of lust. That might explain why their libidinal pursuits are so remarkably unsuccessful.

When I moan about my boyfriend shortage, they are the only ones who sympathize with me. "Buck up, Betty. At least you're not a Heinous Bush Pig, and you're okay to talk to."

FINALLY, I took matters into my own hands. After hearing endless refrains of "I'm going to the Leverett, North, Lowell, Cabot and Winthrop formals. Are you going to any?" I was fed up with my loveless state. I did something I never ever thought I would do. Something incomprehensible. I decided to ask someone to the Quincy formal.

Discussing it with my traitor-friends, I decided that I did not want to ask male friends, men I don't like, men I don't know and men who don't worship the ground I walk on, send me multiple bouquets of flowers and help me pass the QRR.

That sort being in short supply, I decided to call up someone I don't know very well who seemed acceptable. He eats with silverware and doesn't blow his nose on his sleeve.

He laughed at me and called me ridiculous.

At least I gained compassion from the experience. I swore to myself that I would never, ever again ignore a guy at a dance or laugh when someone asks me out.

At last, I found a date.

I am not desperate anymore, but I'm not especially picky anymore, either. I'm not looking for perfection. All I want is a tall, dark, attractive, intelligent, kind, caring and sensitive Harvard man. Is there a Kevin Costner here? Someone who could pretend to be?

By the way, I am free to go to any other formals. I'm fun, sensitive, intelligent and a consumate complainer Imagine--we could share in the ageless Harvard tradition of going to formals and spending the night whining about the music, lighting and crowded dance floor. Then we could go home and complain to our roommates about how there are no decent men/women at Harvard.