When the editors of The Mac Weekly approached me to ask if I’d be the Carrie Bradshaw of Macalester College, I thought I was qualified. Though not yet the proud owner of Givenchy couture, I’ve been known to do a bang-up job of getting dressed up now and then, I like a vodka tonic as much as anyone else who has been 21 for six months, and I have a cute apartment with a very chic Selby Avenue address. I’m Carrie Bradshaw with a shoestring budget and another 40 pounds.

But then a problem reared its ugly head as problems are wont to do: how can I write a Macalester dating column when there’s no dating at Macalester? Courtship at Mac has gone the way of nights at The Grand Café. The what? Yeah, exactly.

If you’re lucky enough to have some smooching in your life, it probably comes in one of two forms: either you met the love of your life during an icebreaker the first day of Orientation and you’ve been attached at the hip ever since, or you find yourself in social situations with varying degrees of inebriation, talking to people with varying degrees of hotness, for whom you have varying degrees of interest. Next thing you know you’re rolling around on the floor. In both scenarios, romance appears like an unexpected check from your parents and is noteworthy for its ease and the distinct lack of effort involved.

This is not to say that we don’t obsess over our crushes, time our exits from buildings in order to rub shoulders, or dial x6777 repeatedly to hear them say their name in what we imagine is a very encouraging, seductive tone. Yet is torturous and idle obsessing really fun? Afflictions of masochism aside, obsessive crushes are fun for about the length of time it takes a gnat to complete its life cycle.

“What is fun?” you ask. Dates, I say. Quirky activities, yummy food and the potential for great conversation aside, dates are all about creating suspense; they’re a veritable two hour pause button between identifying that someone intrigues you and getting to plant one on them. When you resign yourself to hanging out with your crush object in your dorm room, there’s nothing standing between the two of you and making out but a bad case of nerves. A date provides a string of impediments – a barista, a gear shift, a cop, a dinner table, a mini golf putter – creating anticipation and making the eventual goodnight kiss super hot. And really, the bigger the barrier the better. During my parents’ courtship my dad was a chapel guard. My mom would run across Palmer Square in the purple maxi coat she still speaks fondly of and buy coffee and cookies to share in the back pews. God himself stood between my parents and making out! After that, I have it on good account that they couldn’t keep their hands off each other for the next twenty years.

So here’s your assignment, Gentle Readers: the next time you find yourself talking to that super fox you’ve had your eye on, don’t be the coward that walks away, and don’t be their one night private dancer either. Ask that dreamboat on a date! This column needs fodder and we could all use a bit of romance.