I’m in the library. The underwire of my bra has somehow poked through its casing and is now stabbing me in the cleavage (or rather in that hallow space just above my breastbone that would be my cleavage if I actually had any). Too make matters worse, I’m seated across from an adolescent boy who has yet to discover the wonders of deodorant; then again, maybe he knows it exists—maybe his older brother, for example, uses deodorant? If so, I wish said brother would advise our man to avail himself.
I’m tempted to tell him that he’ll never get a girlfriend if he doesn’t. He’ll wind up on match.com, in fact, and he’ll have to spend the rest of his life sitting in the library and watching anime cartoons on his laptop (which he’s been doing for the past three hours). In order for me to offer him a little bit of friendly advice on the subject of personal hygiene, however, (“Dude! Did you know they make this thing called antiperspirant nowadays?”) I’d have to get closer, and I’m already as far away at my laptop cord will allow.
So what am I doing in the library, with my underwire poking me in the chest and my new laptop perched on the edge of the table? Oh, that’s right. I’m writing. Or at least I’m supposed to be writing. Instead, I’m calculating how long it’s going to take for my battery to charge so I can unplug and scamper off to the far side of the room. Given the underwire stab wound on my chest, however, I may bleed to death before then so now, in addition to calculating, I am also considering a covert bra removal operation.
And yes, I’ve engaged in such acts of subterfuge before.
And no, I’m not going to give you the details because after a weekend of self-reflection, I’ve discovered that some details are best kept private. I also discovered that Jennifer Cox’s book works because even though she travels “Around the World in Eighty Dates” she doesn’t attempt to date 80 different guys at the same time—but more on that later this week.
My latest date, you’ll be pleased to know, took place at Bridget Foy’s on Thursday afternoon and it was with a girl. And before you ask, no, I have not for the sake of this insane experiment decided to start “batting for the other team.” I simply had a gift certificate to Bridget Foy’s burning a hole in my pocket and my perennial wing-woman and I both had successful job interviews to celebrate.
Although I’ve spent the majority of the past three weeks trawling the waters of match.com, I have managed to make a few intelligent career moves. The first was to schedule an “informational interview” at one of the universities in town. As a result, I’ve landed myself my first official university teaching gig, several years ahead of schedule. I didn’t think anyone would hire me without PhD or at least an MFA but I was wrong (and yes Mom, you were right) but the powers that be have asked me design and teach the university’s first ever tap course. (Fingers crossed that enough students register for the course to actually run.)
The second was to send my resume to a dance studio in Bucks County and thanks to the new dress I had originally purchased with the hopes of impressing a certain wearer-of-cufflinks, I nailed my interview. The third (three smart things in one week, can you believe it? Sometimes I surprise myself…) was to put together a ten page course proposal for a nearby community college. Who knew you had to put together course proposals five months in advance? Not me, which is why I’m not interviewing for the fall semester when I speak to the folks in the Continuing Education department next week, but rather for the spring. All the same, life is looking up (even if certain library patrons have yet to discover the wonders of deodorant, and even if I’m bleeding to death thanks to a freak underwire accident).
Now I’ll get to go around saying, “Thursday? I’d love to meet you on Thursday but I’m afraid I’ve got a faculty meeting.” Before you know I’ll be administering midterms and grading papers and unlike the last “day job” I had, I’m actually happy—make that thrilled—about this one.