Photo via iStock (NOT a pic of Colin and then-girlfriend)

This week is "Colin Week," in honor of our Yale intern, Colin Adamo, leaving the nest for the summer. Every day we've posted one of his own ruminations on sex and relationships. Today, his last day, he tries to figure out what a "real date" is, and in the process makes us wish we knew guys half as cool when we were in school:

Probably the most intimate meal I've ever had with a girl was in the morning, curled up in a big chair feeding cereal to each other. It was her favorite flavor by a generic brand and we were both still sandy-eyed and dressed in the comfiest clothing we owned. We poured a second bowl and scooched closer and smiled at each other over our barely-coherent early-morning conversation.

This would never, by itself, be considered a "real date."

But why should that be? I felt just as good in that moment as I have in the fanciest of restaurants or sipping the best bottles of wine I could afford (although this must be taken with a grain of salt as I'm a part-time employed full-time college student), if not better. Why is it that the stuffy-dinner-for-two trope sets the boundaries on what we consider a "real date"?

I've been playing with this idea ever since one girl told me we weren't going to kiss again until we went on "a real date," a playful and bubbly way to show that she was eager to both see me and kiss me again. She just needed to be shown that she was important. All sounds great. But what tripped me up were her words, "a real date." There must have been some miscommunication somewhere. I thought our first date had been one of the most whimsical date-concoctions I had ever created: