Dating can be compared to a large piece of chocolate cake. At first glance, the confectionery is perfect. My eyes glaze over at the thought of that first coveted bite; I can imagine how ecstatic my taste buds are going to be.

With little caution to the effects of consuming such a rich dessert, I devour it. Moments afterward, I stare at my empty plate. Guilt kicks in and I begin to think about the consequences. I begin to feel nauseated and regret eating the cake in its entirety.

“Why did the cake have to look so good?” I cry. I vow never to eat cake again.

If the concept of dating is pastry, the social scene in East Lansing is a loaded bakery - and all of us are gluttons. In each of us lies a raging sweet tooth. This presents little problem until we realize we spend much of our time sugarcoating ourselves.

Let me digress for a moment.

Most of my friends went to other universities, thus wherever I went I looked forward to adding interesting people into my catalog of companions. Weekends were not time to study or even catch up on some well-needed sleep. I was prowling for some playmates.

I found these friends in the people I lived with. I see now that our activities revolved around the shallow end of what women do together - primp. I enjoyed getting ready for parties with girls on my floor or my sorority sisters. We shared clothes and decided on makeup schemes to flatter ourselves in the dim fraternity-house (soon to be replaced with bar) lighting.

Before college, I had few (albeit wonderful) female friends. For someone whose preparation patterns included a delightfully mismatched pair of pajamas and the occasional shower, this was exciting and fun! Even better than playing dress-up with my mom’s fur coat, getting dolled up was a new way to bond with my buddies. Or was it?

By the end of my sophomore year, I understood something about college that shattered my opinion of this type of girl bonding. We were not dressing to feel sexy or even connect with each other - we were dressing for them. To indulge my food reference once more, cosmetics and the padded bra were a form of icing on the already tasty treat.

Ladies, I know many may doubt me, but consider this: I own a pair of thigh-high stiletto boots. Not one of us can honestly say we wear them because they are comfortable. Furthermore, halter tops are not cozy. They are not worn around the house because they keep us warm. We wear them to the bar in December, with no coats, in order to impress people. We wear them in order to be tiramisu, instead of jellybeans.

Gentlemen, you do it too. No man I know who waxes in order to save himself from the dreaded unibrow does it because it is an enjoyable thing to do. I find the majority of men do not indulge in Trish McEvoy products, so they are forced to use something else to change their outward appearance: alcohol. I like to drink as much as the next person, but are those eight pitchers of Miller Lite necessary for a fun time at Booty Night?

The booze-induced delusions of rhythm keep you on the dance floor impressing the ladies. And while you are adorable for trying, you must understand, we don’t want Twinkies! We want hot fudge sundaes with whipped cream on top.

I don’t believe it is a horrid thing to enjoy being high-maintenance.

I shop, I tube-top and I love to indulge in a good pedicure. However, I do it for me. My red leather pants are extravagant, slightly excessive and I can’t wait to slide into them - but only because I like them, not because I want the masses to see me in them.

I am not ignorant enough to assume everyone who takes pride in their appearance does so to impress others.

But there are a lot of them out there and the lines between categories are blurred, especially when you are hungry.

I criticize, but I understand. While searching for a sugar fix, sometimes you just can’t help yourself.

So surround yourselves with members of the opposite sex who applaud your individuality and laugh at the drunken ones with sticky, caramelized come-on lines. Don’t settle for dessert simply because it looks good.

Now transformed, I am sick of sampling. After my self-induced fast, I admit I am ready to re-enter the dating world. But I don’t want the same kind of cake that eventually makes me sick.

Tracy Weiss, a State News copy editor, wonders if she should continue her dating diet or attempt to have her cake and eat it too? Offer your advice at weisstra@msu.edu.