A few Saturdays ago, I went on an official, bona fide date with my now-boyfriend. I admit, being in an official couple is kind of exciting. If my memory serves me correctly, our newfound “coupleness” is a signal to him that he can drive my car and call me “woman”; to me, our new status means I can gain 20 pounds and show symptoms of PMS every three days. In any case, becoming a couple is sure to doom our sex life.

But I jest (he better not call me “woman”). I’m thrilled with the new relationship; so thrilled, in fact, that I go right around the bend and become bitter again — bitter that I have no reason to be bitter anymore.

You must understand: Before, I was a near-sighted, left-handed, whiny blonde introvert. Now, I’m a near-sighted, left-handed, whiny blonde introvert with a boyfriend. See the fundamental difference? The difference is that being in a stable, affectionate, sickeningly fantastic relationship validates who I am as a person! Frankly, I’m not sure I deserve that. But all I can really do is banish that thought and enjoy yet another dinner date or thoughtful gift.

It’s much easier being bitter and cynical while you’re single, or when you’re in one of those awful relationships we all put up with at one point or another. But this relationship is so goddamn good, it’s threatening to cramp my style. If this continues, I’ll have to rethink my whole personality, my whole schtick, my whole existence. Already my language, usually peppered with creatively combined swear words, has morphed into a nauseating array of “Oh, how sweet,” “That was fun!” and, the worst of all, childish coos of “Ooooooooh!” I’ve turned into an incoherent idiot, or at least the girl I normally love to hate: the girl grinning and wandering slowly across campus while having nauseatingly sweet cell phone conversations; the girl holding hands with her honey across the table; the girl who actually takes romance advice from women’s magazines. Hell, I just referred to my boyfriend as my “honey”! Ugh, I think I just threw up a little.

Frankly, I blame it on the time of year. In recent years, Halloween has emerged as the kick-off to a season full of mushiness that doesn’t abate until, ironically, Valentine’s Day. The Thanksgiving break, especially, has a special place in the hearts of many college students. It’s the time to return home and rekindle things with a hometown honey or two; for freshmen, ‘tis the season to dump your hometown boyfriend after finally admitting that long-distance relationships are hellish. And for victims of romance like me, Thanksgiving is a ponderous exile from a college boyfriend or girlfriend who’s gone home to another region.

To elaborate on the second-to-last point: freshmen, I hope that you’ve realized by now that the cardinal rule when it comes to long-distance relationships is Don’t. Just … don’t. College, as loathe as we are to admit it, is a time for hooking up, booty calls, fuck buddies, friends with benefits, and all manners of romantic and sexual dilettantism. Note that “talking on the phone with someone who lives 500 miles away and is probably cheating on you” is not included in that list. So, take it from someone who acknowledged two weeks into freshman year that long-distance relationships are about as fun as injecting yourself with turpentine: Just give it up and start partaking in the sweet fruits that your classes, your dorms, and your social groups and clubs have to offer.

But beyond the recreational, amorphous couplings, college represents Do-or-Die when it comes to finding a serious relationship. Said my 28-year-old cousin upon hearing news of my new boyfriend: “Hang onto him. If you don’t find someone in college, you’re doomed for life.” Details of my cousin’s own biography seem to bear this out. He squandered his college years making funny parodies of Mentos commercials, and now he’s going on torturous dates with women he meets over craigslist. (In other news, if anyone is from the Portland, Ore., area and likes shy, 28-year-old movie buffs, I have just the man for you.)

At the other end of the spectrum are people like the Stanford student I met over the summer. She was fond of joking (well, at least I hope she was joking) that she’s attending Stanford not for a B.A. or B.S., but for an M.R.S. Ouch … but hey, if she wants a pretentious husband with a killer trust fund, she’s struck a goldmine.

So, as finals make you want to crawl into a hole and winter break seems like a cruelly distant fantasy, just think: Love — or at least lust — could be just around the corner. And if it isn’t, you’re perfectly welcome to complain all you want. Just don’t bother me — I have a phone call to take, and I have a feeling it’ll be a long and mushy one.