You can't win if you don't play

As I’ve started to put the past 6 months down in writing,  I've started wondering: why in God’s name did I decide to venture into online dating again? Writing things down can make me overly introspective at times which is either an excellent reason to keep blogging, or a truly stunning argument for stopping all together.  Hindsight isn’t 20/20 unless you bother to look back over your shoulder though, so I’m going to go with the former and just keep on, keepin' on with this whole blogging business. Seriously though, I really started to wonder, what actually started all of this?   Then it came to me, one word: Stefan.  Stefan (pronounced Stef-an, not Stef-ahhn) was my  A&P 1 teacher this past summer, upon whom I developed The Biggest Crush.  (Don't worry Mom, I promise this isn't as questionable as it seems, keep reading. :)). 

I was a little bit nervous to go back to school las summer.  School in general doesn't make me nervous, but facing down the very same science classes that I so successfully avoided during undergrad and graduate school made my tummy do a little flip-flop.   So imagine my pleasure when on my first night of class, uncomfortably wedged into a right-handed desk I found that I was to be taught by my own personal version of a bad boy: an incredibly attractive, slightly nerdy and British. Yes please.  

So in order: physical attractiveness is one thing, and a great thing at that but all on its onesises it can get old pretty quick.  Add intelligence (I like 'em nerdy) and kindness and now you've caught my attention.  Add in a passion and love for teaching and well...do you like beavers?  Cause DAAAAAAMN.  (Sorry, I just had to do it.)  This was certainly not part of the plan when I registered but suddenly in addition to trying to memorize the whole of human anatomy in 8 weeks I also had to find time each night to alternate  between paying attention and mooning.  Life's rough huh? 

So when did I revert back to being a pre-adolescent girl you ask?  Probably about the same time that I stopped sleeping and started drinking Diet Coke and eating Sour Patch Kids for dinner on the reg. Seriously though, Stefan totally joined in on my Sour Patch Kid consumption most days before class. That's right, we bonded over sour chewy candies. Boom.  With such a solid basis upon which to place my confidence I decided that it was time to take a leap: I was going to ask Stefan out.   What? is that not a logical next step?!  Besides, what’s the worst that could happen?   He’d laugh in my face, call me fugly and walk away?  Well yes, that would be crushing, embarrassing and mortifying, but if fear of that worth never knowing if our Sour Straw QT was simply congeniality run amuck through a caffeine induced haze or a little bit more more?    Nope.  

So as the semester drew to a close I plotted my moment of probable humiliation.  How does one ask out their teacher after the end of the semester without coming across like a total crazy? Not possible.  So rather, how does one ask out their teacher after the end of the semester in a way that leaves some shot of success?   A work email takes a borderline inappropriate message and turns it seriously inappropriate and, if misconstrued could also potentially threaten his professional livelihood.  I wouldn’t take too kindly if someone did that to me even if they were as charming and delightful as I, and so this left Facebook.  Even in retrospect this makes me queasy. 

So, the day after grades were submitted I sat on my couch in my favorite sweatpants and lucky gator t-shirt staring at my computer, reminding myself that expressing interest in a person is a compliment which, even if unreciprocated, is generally still flattering and as such appreciated.  Anyone with manners can figure out how to reject you kindly via an email.  Right?  And please oh please oh please don’t let him call me fugly.  

So I did it.  I sent the darn message and asked my former teacher out to coffee or a drink.  Then walked to the bathroom and vomited.  Seriously, it was that bad.  Bad enough that I might put it down as one of the bravest things I’ve ever done.  I’d  generally rather risk bodily harm before rejection and yet I faced it down with the hopes of spending time with someone smart, interesting and (it has to be said) oh so pretty. 

And you’ll never guess…he was flattered and but that for the distance he’d love to.  The distance you ask?  Yeah...the kid got deported back to England.

Ain’t that a bitch? (Either that or a REALLY good lie to get out of telling me that he thinks I'm a hose-beast.  I'll take it either way. )

So there it is: I had a crush.  The universe reminded me that there are really smart, funny and appealing guys out there and that the only way to find out which ones they are is to go and find out first hand.  I find being alone to be entirely delightful (nobody to interfere with my string cheese eating or West Wing watching!) and hugely preferable to being with the wrong guy, but what about the right guy?  There it is: what about the right guy?  That little thought rankled and rattled around my brain for rest of the summer until once again, my period of perseveration ended in an abrupt decision and action.  You’re never going to win if you don’t even play the game.  

 One act of bravery (and yes, I consider asking out my very recent A&P teacher out on a date to be brave) inspired another act of bravery.   My first act resulted in an entertaining pen pal and drinking buddy if I ever happen to be in England, what would my second act bring?