I must admit I was less than thrilled when I received the assignment to interview Matthew J. Glazer ’06, the College’s newest Undergraduate Council president. A Harvard student looking to succeed in politics—how unique and exciting! But I am a diligent reporter. I take my assignments seriously. I collected my notebook, swallowed my pride, and donned my usual professional attire: unwashed hair in a ponytail, no makeup, and the clothes I had been wearing for the past 36 hours. I’m diligent, sure, but not that diligent. Mr. President and the occupants and staff of Winthrop Dining Hall would have to deal.
I had met Glazer once before at a Canada Club party. I was a little tipsy at the time, but I remembered the encounter. It seemed that Matt, however, did not. I followed his lead and introduced myself like we were strangers. We continued on these terms, moving forward with the normal proceedings of an interview, but I kept stumbling. It’s hard to concentrate on what your subject is saying when you can’t stop staring at his partially pony-tailed hair.
“Why was it like that?” I wondered. “Did he not know that the slicked-back skater look last seen in Clueless had gone out with Alicia Silverstone’s career? Why was this wannabe skater dude the president of the UC?” By the end of the hour, I had found the answer to my question, but I had also found something else. Something unprofessional. Something, well, shameful. That’s right. I fell in love with Matt Glazer.
Not at First Sight
It wasn’t Glazer’s wit that won me over. After our brief introduction, that first critical moment in the Winthrop Dining Hall, Matt and I got down to business. I had concocted a series of ridiculous questions to put him at ease.
If you were an inanimate object, what would you be?
“A Ferrari.”
Which president, dead or alive, would you want to sleep with?
After spending the better part of half an hour thinking, Matt proudly replied, “George Washington. The first. The best.”
He didn’t do too well with some of the other questions, either.
But later on, he told me he had a good sense of humor. That was the best joke of the night.
In spite of his comedic weakness and questionable taste, I still fell for Matt. I can pinpoint the exact moment it happened. Halfway through the dining hall interview, someone approached Matt with a mundane problem regarding UC funding.
Consuming my own hand was more appealing to me than the five minutes spent discussing this matter. Matt, however, was eating this up. Not only did he appear interested and engaged, he actually was. When the UC staffer (rightfully) apologized for bothering Matt, the gracious president replied, “I don’t want you to ever think you’re bugging me.”
Bam! I was floored. I felt like I had just been hit by a ton of the Japanese shampoo and conditioner that Matt uses to style hair—hair that I had once found repulsive, but which now seemed, inexplicably, to beg for my caress.
After chatting for a while, Matt invited me up to his room. Actually, it’s possible I invited myself. Details are not important. After entering his surprisingly small common room, I saw two things: a hookah (his roommate’s) and a bunch of books (his). Upon closer inspection, I found a box of questionable health food containing an assortment of good-for-you delights—including dried prunes. He told me his mother often sends such packages. Far from being disgusted by this Grape Nuts-loving momma’s boy, I found Glazer’s close attachment to his family strangely attractive.
Matt told me how much he loves and admires his parents and how he talks to his sister Jessica on the phone everyday. Later, Jessica emailed me a long self-proclaimed love letter about the selfless, sweet man her little brother has become. Sweet and sensitive? Thoughts of Matt’s dim wit and Harvard-standard ambitions were fast being replaced by dreams of romantic candlelit dinners followed by repeated viewings of Clueless. But I tried to restrain myself: keep it professional, I thought.
So embarrassed was I by my lack of restraint that when Matt invited me to dinner with his friend, I pretended I had other plans. A dinner date, to be exact. True, my date consisted of a cup of Ramen noodles, consumed in my room, still in the clothes that I had been wearing now for 38 hours, dreaming of my next encounter with Matt Glazer, UC President and certified stud… But again, details are not important.
Luckily, I didn’t have long to wait for another encounter. Matt e-mailed me a few nights later with the details of a dinner he was having with some friends. Upon reading his e-mail, I giggled like a schoolgirl, planned my outfit, and calmly replied, “That would be really helpful for this story.”
My Messiah
When I walked into the Winthrop Dining Hall 15 minutes late, I saw a group of people so cool that I immediately prayed to Jesus these were not Matt’s friends. Apparently Jesus doesn’t listen to Jewish girls. I was forced to take a seat right in the middle of the crowd of incredibly cool people. Luckily, I am quick on my feet. I devised a believable story about how I’d been instructed not to talk and only to observe, saving myself from the horror of normal human conversation.
In my silence, I got a chance to see a different Matt: a funny Matt, a relaxed Matt, a Matt I like to call “Matt the Babe.” His guy friends admire him, his girlfriends clearly adore him, and even the tall boy with the “It’s Mullet Time” t-shirt had only great things to say about our fearless leader.
In a conversation that ranged from The Oregon Trail to the merits of bestiality, I discovered some interesting facts about “Matt the Babe.” First, he has received no fewer than three thongs from the UC, one of which has his face on it. Second, he’s close to his friends. “We bonded over his curly hair stage,” one friend reminisced. Third, he is often likened to an important aforementioned religious figure.
How did Matt get his new job? “Jesus has got connections,” his friend joked.
After this titillating meal, I tried in vain to organize another rendezvous with the object of both my story—and my affection. Unfortunately, intersession was fast approaching, and Matt was heading home to small-town New York to spend some quality sweet-and-sensitive time with his family.
I drifted in a lovesick daze back to my room, where I sat down at my computer and tried to start writing. Something wasn’t working. How do you write a juicy exposé about a guy who once rescued a stray dog, used to secretly shovel snow out of his elderly neighbor’s driveway, and is genuinely interested in what everyone has to say? As his sister says, “Matt is one of the most real people you’ll ever meet,” and his commitment to the UC and to his friends and family, although the source of his sleep depravation, is enough to make any girl fall in love. Who would have thought that by accepting what I thought would be any other dreary article, I was going to meet my future husband? (Hey, a girl can dream, right?)
So there you have it. Matt Glazer: love of my life. Future father of my children. President of the UC. You would think that after reading this creepy tribute, Matt would either place a restraining order on me or call and beg for me to give back the balled up underwear I took from his drawer. But who am I kidding? He’s such a nice guy, he’ll probably do to me what he does to everybody else: be my friend. And I’ll keep the underwear.
