I went to dinner with Wonderboy last night in hopes of drowning out my sorrows with you know, an entire cocktail and some Malaysian food, but as usual I made it two-thirds of the way through the drink before I told him I couldn’t finish it and still drive home. On top of this, instead of getting me to talk about airplanes or fashion or movies, he sat there and let me retell the entire story of how Superstar and I met in the hallway of the CMU business school building, how we went out for Valentine’s Day, and the complete chronology of our time together up until this point.
“M and I are back together,” he said. “Oh,” I responded, “I thought you broke up.” “We did,” he said, “for one week.” Wow, that must have been tough, I thought. A whole week. Granted, it’s been two and a half weeks for me and every minute seems to pass in agonizing eternity. Wonderboy has illustrated the convenience of breaking up when you live in the same state, however. You can just drive over, kiss, make up, and everything’s better again.
I don’t know how much longer my faithful readers are going to put up with my drunken, sorrowful ramblings, so if you haven’t heard the story I told Wonderboy yet, I’ll tell you now. After all, this blog started several months after the story, so I never did get to tell it.
Think Tuesday night, February in Pennsylvania, snow, graduate school, me wearing neon pink thermal underwear, jeans, two sweatshirts, and a wool coat in the middle of class. Hey you gotta cut me some slack, I’m from California, and as far as I was concerned it was damn cold. I was sitting in this business school class I decided to take as an elective for my MHCI, nervously fidgeting in my seat, partially because I didn’t know what was going on and partially because I had to leave early to go to hockey practice, which I had just barely started a few weeks ago. (Think me using my stick to keep upright, knees rigid, balanced precariously, but that’s a whole ‘nother story.) I had already decided that while business school students were a serious bunch, all dressed up and going to class, several of them were good looking enough to warrant taking an elective that I probably wouldn’t do that well in. My GPA can take the hit for love, I thought.
Of course, there had been no approachable opportunities up until that point. In the middle of a video clip and presentation, with the room half darkened, I zipped up my backpack as quietly as I could and exited the room. I’m pretty sure everyone noticed the hallway light illuminating the entire room and the door slamming, but hey, I tried. I put my backpack down in the hallway to adjust the contents, including my absurdly heavy laptop, then hauled it back onto my shoulders and turned toward the stairs.
“Hey, you’re going to miss my Braveheart demonstration.” I turned abruptly in the hallway, my badly dyed blonde and purple locks rolling over my shoulders. “What?” I said. I stared for several seconds at a man wrapping some kind of tartan plaid picnic blanket or flannel around his waist and over his khaki Dockers.
“Um,” I said, “I have to go to ice hockey.” I’m not sure why I specified ice hockey, except that I thought no one would know what I was talking about. I had forgotten that I was on the east coast, and I also didn’t realize I was talking to a Canadian. His eyes lit up and he stopped folding his picnic blanket, which I started to assume was a kilt from the Braveheart reference. “You play ice hockey? I play ice hockey!” he said all in one breath, excitedly.
“Oh,” I responded, suddenly embarrassed, “I just started.” You don’t even know how bad I am, I thought. Of course, who am I to turn red, you’re putting a kilt on in the hallway. “I like hockey cuz’ it starts at night, I row crew and it’s too early for me.”
“I row too!” he said, “Luckily our team rows in the evenings, at Three Rivers. I’ll bring you the information next time if you’re interested.” “Oh, thanks,” I said, raising an eyebrow. I turned and headed down the stairs, evaluating what had just happened. I met a man in the hallway of the business school building, taking his pants off to put on a picnic blanket kilt, and he claims to play ice hockey and row crew, both of which I mysteriously also do. I suppose it could be coincidence (which it turns out later, it actually was), but I have to say it was still a little sketchy.
I returned on Thursday after my humiliating Tuesday night hockey practice during which I spent the whole time trying not to fall and crash, and sat down in class. During a lecture break while I was typing furiously away on my laptop (yes, IMing to friends), someone stood hovering over my desk and attracted my attention when I finally bothered to look up. It was kilt boy, from Tuesday, with the crew paperwork.
I never thought I’d ask out a guy with a beard, let alone a guy who gets naked in the hallways of public buildings. But I did manage to do it, a few days later, and the rest is history. And he did eventually see how badly I skated, but he showed me how to skate backwards, and for that I am eternally grateful. All I can hope now is that he comes to the conclusion it might be a good idea to make a little more history together, whether it also involves kilts, I don’t mind either way.
