Hidden gems are nestled in the depths of Mann Library — and I’m not talking about all the athletes that hang out there.
The history of Cornell’s School of Agriculture and Life Science is fruitful and unique. Though most of us may think of the average CALS student as a finance obsessed Dyson kid, there is a valuable population that is often forgotten, even though they put the “agriculture” in “School of Agriculture and Life Sciences.”
Yes, I’m talking about the Agriculture majors. The farmers of Cornell, the unspoken heroes of upstate New York. The noble workers of the land who came to this fine institution to learn how to take over the family farm properly. The heart and soul of our beloved School of Agriculture.
I used to be ignorant of the allure of the Cornell farmer, just like many of my peers — until I met one. I assumed every guy pursuing an Agriculture degree was a backward, country, I-only-love-my-horse-and-my-tractor kind of guy.
When I was set up with one of these men last spring, I was apprehensive. However, my good friend spoke the praises of this guy, and I was desperate for a cute formal date. In the shortest possible explanation, that’s how I ended up in a situationship with a dairy farmer (cowboy, if you will).
My farmer was a tall, lanky, all-American guy. Blond hair, blue eyes and impossibly straight teeth. Not only was he cute, but he was a perfect gentleman too. Though I don’t consider our trip to my formal a date per se — it was more of a precursor to our first hookup — he was still chivalrous, and almost to a fault. He picked me up and drove me home every time we spent the night together, which feels like a hard ask these days.
Tangentially, one thing that is often overlooked about the noble farmer is his hands. Though the hands are very important to any man, the farmer’s hands have a special level of skill that I have yet to find in any other breed of boy. In the most normal way possible, I guess it makes sense that if you grow up milking cows, you develop a certain touch….
After we got together the first time, he immediately asked when I’d be free again. No beating around the bush, no games or convoluted mixed signals. When I told him I was swamped with work until Sunday, he just registered what I said and nodded.
I know he was actually listening because he didn’t text me back until nine in the morning on Sunday (the farmer’s version of sleeping in) to ask what I wanted to do with him that night. I hit the jackpot: a guy who respected boundaries.
Though our personalities and lifestyles were a bit too mismatched to formally date, he and I spent a few high-quality nights together. After he asked to have sex with me — an advance that I declined, obviously — he just shrugged and went along with it. He also told me several times that he couldn’t believe I was single, and sat through every rom-com I made him watch (all of which he hadn’t seen before) without whining once.
As the saying goes, save a horse, ride a cowboy. Even if I had no intention of dating (or riding) this guy long-term, he treated me better than any guy I have been seriously involved with. Maybe it extends to every guy who grew up in a rural area, but this kid just knew how to act. After a semester of failed flirtationships, I never would’ve guessed that I needed a farmer boy to restore my faith in men.
So, the next time you feel your collegiate love life has reached a new level of non-existent, don’t go flocking to the Ithaca College men. Instead, hang out at the Dairy Bar for an afternoon. If you have any luck, you might meet a farmer who’s just what you need.
Virginia Snatch is a student at Cornell University. Her column, The Slip ‘N Slide runs on alternate Sex on Thursdays this semester. Comments can be sent to [email protected].
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