By: Dana Angrisano
As a junior in college, sometimes I feel like an unwatered plant in a flaming desert.
By that I mean: there is a drought of men.
I’m too young to start sleeping with divorcees, but definitely too old to hook up with freshmen and sophomores (though there’s something disturbingly sexy about a sophomore who just developed a sense of self-esteem).
And guys my own age? A girl needs friends.
Plus, I refuse to make out with the same people who assign me to play beer pong with pledges. That would be unnatural. Possibly illegal under the Geneva Convention.
This is where Owen Library comes in.
Owen is a sanctuary for upperclassmen girls (or maybe just me) who are tired of frat basements and finally ready for a man who doesn’t have a cent to his name but still thinks he deserves a second degree and a corner office at Goldman.
The business school library is the perfect hunting ground.
Think about it: bored postgrads, already burnt out, desperate to move to New York, and still dumb enough to be impressed by a 21-year-old who says things like, “I’m just trying to live in the moment.”
That innocence hooks them.
So, ladies, here’s your Three-Step Guide to Bagging a Finance Bro at Owen:
1.Placement: Sit as close as possible to the densest cluster of quarter-zips. Bonus points if you can hear one of them loudly explaining what an “IPO” is to a guy drinking an energy drink (cause that totally isn’t fruity as fuck).
2.Props: Pretend to read The Economist. They won’t even notice if it’s upside down — they’re too busy checking crypto on their phones.
3.Timing: Go to the bathroom when they go. Accidentally brush hands over the Purell dispenser. His fingers linger. Boom: next thing you know, he’s asking you to be exclusive at Soho House.
And if you don’t find your match? Don’t worry— you’ll still leave Owen smelling like finance-bro cologne: a haunting blend of Axe deodorant and generational wealth.
So stop wasting time in frat houses. Your daddy isn’t frat-flicking on a sticky stage. He’s in Owen Library, wearing loafers with no socks, waiting to mansplain private equity to you while eating dry almonds out of a Ziploc bag.
