COLUMN: "Long Distance Love"

From Reshma Yaqub's "Text, Translation and Commentary," Spring '92. What is the law of physics that makes the clock slow down as it nears reduced rate calling hours? All the frustration of a long distance relationship can be encapsulated in the "10:59 that wouldn't die." If you start dialing at 10:59, but it doesn't actually ring until 11:00, that counts as reduced rate, right? What if it rings at 10:59, but they don't actually pick it up until 11:00? The very phrase "long distance relationship" implies phone bill. There must be some kind of slimy conspiracy between Cupid and AT&T.; · You've said goodbye, but you don't want to be the first to hang up. So you wait, and then you hear that horrible, chilling click. It echoes. For some reason, you still don't hang up. Like a masochist, you wait for that deathly dial tone. Because once you put the phone down, you'll have to accept that you're not going to hear that soothing voice again tonight. 11:31 p.m. You finally cradle the receiver. You close your eyes, and you ache inside, and you wait for the next time. A hug would be worth a thousand words tonight. · You scamper excitedly into the mailroom, almost knocking over someone who is dejectedly reading her junk mail. You flip through everything in the box, filtering out the flyers for yet another bonanza poster sale at the Book Store, desperately seeking for some verification of your commitment. Even a postcard would make you happy after the day you've had. Nothing. Shoulders slumped, you are suddenly so incredibly lonely that you actually read your junk mail. Some imbecile who naively believes in true love almost knocks you over as he scampers into the mailroom, with hope in his eyes. · Scenario: airport, train station, bus terminal, subway platform -- choose your poison. As you cling on to each other for dear life, a tear slips, against your furtive instructions. You try not to look each other in the eye as the monotone, static voice announces over the loudspeaker that it's time for you to be ripped away from the one source of stability and meaning in your life. Against your will, a crowd separates you. The feeling of comfort, safety, being held, lingers but a moment. As you are swept along, you see a lone hand, waving above the sea of empty faces. And then nothing. And then you are truly alone, more alone than you ever thought possible. How many times can a person say goodbye and still have anything left in her heart? · You scamper excitedly into the mailroom, and open your mailbox. It's here, a letter! You fling your backpack on the floor, and rip the envelope open. A smile envelops your face as you learn the latest goings-on in your honey's life. (Actually you already know them, because both of you end up telling each other what you wrote before you mail the letters anyway.) After you've read it over and over, and you've folded it so the creases are just right, you turn to the rest of the mail. Underneath the flyer about the Book Store bonanaza is an envelope with a see-through cellophane window that has your name on it. You know what it is, but you pray that it isn't, but inevitably it is. The phone bill from hell. Carefully avoiding the three digit number at the bottom of the page, your eyes stalk the rest of the sheet. How could you possibly have talked to each other this much? There was so much you didn't get to say, so much you didn't get to hear. It only felt like five minutes, how could it possibly have been half an hour? Is this another warped law of physics? What kind of sadists are these people at the phone company? They probably enjoy computing your bill. They probably fax each other gleeful notes. "Look how depressed she was last Wednesday - she called him three times in one night! What a loser!" · On College Green, you are ready to commit homicide. Why do all these disgustingly cute couples have to hold hands and get all mushy-gushy in front of you? Why don't they just get a room? Can't you have some peace and solace on the one block of greenery within a ten mile radius? They purposely do this to vex you. They must be secret agents from AT&T;, trying to send you subliminal messages to call during business hours. What is this cruel hoax called life? It helps a little to remember what my husband told me. "Every time you see another couple holding hands, you should feel sorry for them -- because they will never share a love as great as ours." After all is said and done and paid for, he's worth it. Reshma Yaqub is a senior Political Science major from Potomac, Maryland. Text, Translation and Commentary appears alternate Wednesdays.