My first year of college was one of the best years of my life. I absolutely loved it. I was discovering a new world and making new friends. I found the love of my life. I also met the man who would become my husband. (I wouldn't realize for a few years that I had the wrong guy in the "love of my life" position.) I got a major role in a play, which was so much fun. Everything was going extremely well.
Except one thing: I was failing Math.
Math has always been my Achilles' heel. I took the lowest level Algebra class I could take while still receiving credits. The boss on the TV show 10 Items or Less reminds me of my college math teacher in both looks and behavior. "Mr. K" was a sweet, married man and the youngest professor I would ever have. At some point, I realized I could act like a clown in class, asking funny questions and teasing Mr. K in an attempt to distract him enough to waste some math-related class time. It worked. In my humorous attempts, though, I was also trying to understand what was going on so I could pass. I would even stay after class sometimes, mainly in order to show him I was trying. We developed a weird connection. Could it be? I had a crush on my math professor! (Before that, my high school drama teacher had a thing for me and we even dated a few times. Psychoanalyse that.)
One afternoon, I was sitting by myself in the common area. It was a beautiful day and I was enjoying the weather while reading a book.
"Kelly! Shouldn't you be studying your math?" Mr. K yelled out from a nearby table, teasing me in an authoritarian tone. He had a huge smile on his face and I could tell he thought he was being very funny.
"Uh, no. It's not 11:15 yet. I only think about math during class," I sarcastically teased back.
"Maybe that's your problem! Come sit over here and we'll go over your work."
I looked back down and smirked. "If you want to talk to me, Professor, you'll have to come sit over here!" I looked back up, flashed a smile, and he blushed.
A moment later, he was sitting on the bench next to me. We chatted about the weather and then he asked me if I had any trouble with my homework. I refused to talk math since we weren't in class, telling him so. (I wasn't kidding about not thinking about math.) I got weird looks from passing students. Talking to a professor here must look weird, I thought.
"Well, I'll see you later on in class," he said, giggling.
As I watched him walk away I found myself wishing he weren't married, even though I couldn't imagine that we would have ever had enough in common. But there was an undeniable chemistry between us and I'm sure he felt it, too. I would have never acted upon it and that's maybe what made it fun.
I put my head down to return to my book. To my horror, the top three buttons of my dress were undone...undone far enough that my pink bra was showing. So exposed, in fact, Janet Jackson would have felt bad for me. I was so embarrassed!
However, I DID get a "D" in the class (enough to pass and receive credits), even though I failed every freaking test. I can't say it was definitively the pink bra. I like to think it was my tenacious attempt to pass by working hard.
Yeah.
I transferred to another campus the next year, leaving Mr. K and the pink bra incident behind. A few years later I was shopping with my mom. I was by myself in the paper towel aisle, standing on my toes trying to reach a certain package (I'm picky). With my back turned, I heard someone very close whisper, "Do you recommend any certain kind?" I turned to see Mr. K and his sweet smile.
I tried to make some lame math-related joke about the ply times the sheets per roll divided by cost, but he just smiled. We talked for a while and then he said he had to go. "It was great to see you," he said, giving me a hug.
When I rejoined my mom at the end of the aisle, she said, "Who was that? Did you guys date or something?"
"No..." I sighed.
March 08, 2008
March 07, 2008
When You Care Enough to Send...
I forgot to check the mail yesterday, even though it was Entertainment Weekly day. (That's the best mail day!) I guess I just got busy. So Dan brought the mail in when he got home, exclaiming, "Someone sent you a package!" as he set the mail on the counter.
"A package? What is it?" I asked, excitedly hurrying to see. Dan gave me a look as if to say how would I know what's in this completely sealed package, but I ignored him as I looked at the return address. It was from an old friend from high school with whom I recently reconnected.
I ripped the paper and inside was a box of Girl Scout cookies with a note that said: "Just a little something to get you through the winter!" The sweetness and spontaneity of it touched me deeply.
There's something about snail mail that could never be matched with email. I have always been a sucker for stationary products. I used to spend hours looking at stationary, stickers, pencils, erasers, etc. when I would go to the store with my parents. I would admire all of the various things and occasionally I would be allowed to get something new for school. (In fifth grade, erasers were the equivalent to a new pair of Jimmy Choo's.)
Unfortately, personal touches are lost in an Internet world. An e-card is nice, but it could never replace the excitement of opening a paper card (from someone you like, mind you). And unlike people who send things because they think they have to, I got a package because someone was just thinking of me. That's it. And even though the box of cookies might not last very long, the thought of someone caring enough to send them will last a long time.
"A package? What is it?" I asked, excitedly hurrying to see. Dan gave me a look as if to say how would I know what's in this completely sealed package, but I ignored him as I looked at the return address. It was from an old friend from high school with whom I recently reconnected.
I ripped the paper and inside was a box of Girl Scout cookies with a note that said: "Just a little something to get you through the winter!" The sweetness and spontaneity of it touched me deeply.
There's something about snail mail that could never be matched with email. I have always been a sucker for stationary products. I used to spend hours looking at stationary, stickers, pencils, erasers, etc. when I would go to the store with my parents. I would admire all of the various things and occasionally I would be allowed to get something new for school. (In fifth grade, erasers were the equivalent to a new pair of Jimmy Choo's.)
Unfortately, personal touches are lost in an Internet world. An e-card is nice, but it could never replace the excitement of opening a paper card (from someone you like, mind you). And unlike people who send things because they think they have to, I got a package because someone was just thinking of me. That's it. And even though the box of cookies might not last very long, the thought of someone caring enough to send them will last a long time.
March 01, 2008
We Care About Heath
Although Heath Ledger has been dead for more than a month, he appeared in my dream the other night. My brain must be backed up. I tend to dream of things that were mentioned in passing during the day. (For some reason, though, I cannot seem to dream of Christian Bale--try as I might.) I've heard it said that we deal with our darkest feelings in our dreams and "nightmares" are actually good for us. But more about Heath...
I first heard of Heath Ledger in 1999 when he starred in "Ten Things I Hate About You." The soundtrack to that movie rocks. I'm usually interested in Shakespeare-related things, so I checked it out and liked it. I then saw Heath in "The Patriot," all the while not thinking much of it. But "Heath" would come back to bite me a short time later.
I started working for a very well-known publishing company in 2002 as a Copyeditor. One day my boss called me into her office. "Look at this," she said sternly, while handing me a magazine.
I looked at the ad closely, reading the small type at the bottom. "You can get 12 issues for..." blah, blah, blah.
"Do you see anything wrong with it?" She interrupted, suddenly angry.
"Ummmm...." Unfortunately, nothing stuck out in the small paragraph I was quickly scanning. Perhaps the pricing was wrong?
"How about the misspelled word on the top?"
My eyes darted to the top. In large, bright letters was the word HEATH. The huge type should have read health. And considering that the magazine was solely focused on health, it was a big blunder. It ended up reading something like, "We care about Heath!"
I'm still not sure that my eyes were the last to see it before it went out, but I was blamed for the millions of people who would scoff at the misspelling...for everyone who would doubt the magazine's credibility...for everyone who wouldn't renew their subscriptions...
Through it all, though, I couldn't help but think of Heath Ledger. Did I see his name and subconsciously think the word was spelled correctly? Spell check wouldn't have caught the misspelling because heath is also a noun meaning a tract of open and uncultivated land; a wasteland overgrown with shrubs.
Ironically, that job would become a wasteland for me. Although I never really liked it, some tragic personal issues would soon completely interfere with my ability to keep interest in being productive at the job. I would be laid off more than a year later (because of cut-backs, not because of heath) and I was probably one of the only people to ever leave smiling and laughing with joy while carrying my little box of possessions...and some extra paper clips.
I first heard of Heath Ledger in 1999 when he starred in "Ten Things I Hate About You." The soundtrack to that movie rocks. I'm usually interested in Shakespeare-related things, so I checked it out and liked it. I then saw Heath in "The Patriot," all the while not thinking much of it. But "Heath" would come back to bite me a short time later.
I started working for a very well-known publishing company in 2002 as a Copyeditor. One day my boss called me into her office. "Look at this," she said sternly, while handing me a magazine.
I looked at the ad closely, reading the small type at the bottom. "You can get 12 issues for..." blah, blah, blah.
"Do you see anything wrong with it?" She interrupted, suddenly angry.
"Ummmm...." Unfortunately, nothing stuck out in the small paragraph I was quickly scanning. Perhaps the pricing was wrong?
"How about the misspelled word on the top?"
My eyes darted to the top. In large, bright letters was the word HEATH. The huge type should have read health. And considering that the magazine was solely focused on health, it was a big blunder. It ended up reading something like, "We care about Heath!"
I'm still not sure that my eyes were the last to see it before it went out, but I was blamed for the millions of people who would scoff at the misspelling...for everyone who would doubt the magazine's credibility...for everyone who wouldn't renew their subscriptions...
Through it all, though, I couldn't help but think of Heath Ledger. Did I see his name and subconsciously think the word was spelled correctly? Spell check wouldn't have caught the misspelling because heath is also a noun meaning a tract of open and uncultivated land; a wasteland overgrown with shrubs.
Ironically, that job would become a wasteland for me. Although I never really liked it, some tragic personal issues would soon completely interfere with my ability to keep interest in being productive at the job. I would be laid off more than a year later (because of cut-backs, not because of heath) and I was probably one of the only people to ever leave smiling and laughing with joy while carrying my little box of possessions...and some extra paper clips.
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