This week, I got hit on.

Hold on, hear me out- this IS blog-worthy - wait and see.

This week, I got hit on, WHILE WRITING a final exam.

Before your imagination runs TOO wild, let me clarify several things:
1) I did NOT get hit on by a prof,
2) I did NOT get carried away by the sheer novelty of it all and start making out with some guy mid-paragraph, and
3) It is NOT AT ALL likely that any type of short-term, long-term, or any-term relationship will develop as a result of this quite unconventional "proposition"... (sorry folks, it's not THAT type of blog-worthy!)

Now, for what DID happen...

So, apparently, there's this guy.

This guy I've talked to like maybe 3 times this semester. Seems like a nice guy, and I know once we had a really good "get to know ya" conversation that might have lasted all of a minute and a half. Seriously, he seems like a great guy.

You know, the typical "not on my radar" type of guy, so pretty much the exact type of guy who usually asks me out.

Oh, you mean the kinda cute guy who sits on the other side of the room whom I sometimes smile at ever-so-charmingly?

Nope, not him.

Anyways, moving on, the date-ability or non-date-ability of the guy is not really the point.

So, on Tuesday, I file into my classroom, looking ridiculously grubby and unwashed with my 2-day old hairdo and my naked face (could have used a little doctoring that day, mostly due to my state of grubby unwashedness), holding about 18-million nearly-out-of-ink pens, wearing my comfy jeans and my oh-so-classy "I Love Nerds" T-shirt. However, somehow, despite the fact that I'm currently in the running for "Most Likely To Be Expelled For Sheer Ickiness", said T-shirt manages to evoke a compliment from my secret admirer (hereafter referred to only as "Gutsy"¹, or "Gutsy needs glasses"²).

Other behaviors that I don't consider odd at the time but which make far more sense later include Gutsy (name changed to protect the innocent) eagerly encouraging me to sit in the desk next to him, which was weird, especially when it becomes apparent that my friend Andrew has already claimed said desk, upon which I slip easily into the desk behind Andrew's and jolt to attention as the exam is distributed.

Exam instructions are given, exam is undertaken, and all seem to be rolling along in a jolly manner until somewhere around the 2-hour point, when Gutsy completes his exam (keeners like me will be writing for another hour yet). Somewhere in my peripheral vision Gutsy, who is sitting 1 row over, 1 up, front and center to the prof, finishes his exam and hands it in; for some reason he bumbles about for awhile before slipping a note onto my desk on his way out the door.

I am jolted out of my intensely focused exam-writing state (I was in the zone, man!) by the flutter of paper hitting my desk. I look around in shock, first surveying the note's author, who simply smiles at me and walks out the door. My eyes immediately jump with panic to my prof, who is perched not 10 feet away and staring back in my direction, fully aware of my latest interchange. Thoughts race as I contemplate the consequences of being caught receiving a note during a university-level final exam. None of the scenarios running through my head sound very appealing. I search my prof's face, and read only the slightest knowing hint of a smile; apparently she shares my sneaking predilection that the note is of a more personal nature. I exhale. The panic begins to drain from my face as I finally turn my eyes and thoughts back to my exam.

I am taking no chances. I leave the note untouched and visible on my desktop until the exam's completion, despite the raised eyebrows and annoyingly knowing looks of my neighboring classmates. I hope and pray that my prof does not reconsider her benevolent oversight, and continue plugging away at my final.

Finally I make it through the exam, and after the usual goading of the prof that "time is up... last sentences please!" I finally complete the exam, gather my materials, and slip my mischief-causing love note into my pocket, blushing at my prof's irritatingly knowing smile, and slip out the door.

In the safety and seclusion of the hallway I examine the note further to behold the contact info of Gutsy himself (ladies, let me know if you're at all intrigued... I can pass it on!) I ditch out on the after-class pub rendezvous that Gutsy made a special point to emphasize to the class before his dramatic exit, and head home, with my head only slightly too big to fit through a single-frame doorway.

I guess that's what one can expect when writing final exams for the theatre department....
Drama, drama, drama.


¹ I mean, the guy asked me out during a FINAL EXAM, what would you call him? [back]
² Well, he did tell me I looked good that day; or he liked my shirt, or something like that; whatever- the kid needs glasses. [back]

It feels like a school at this hour of the day- not the place I go to meet my social quota, run into people in the hallway, and wile away the hours between classes. At 8:30 AM, the place feels like an institute of higher learning.

People walk around in that early morning brain-fog; their eyes have a slightly Asian look; you know, morning eyes. Eyes that don't want to be open quite yet. The halls are quiet, and conversations seem more somber, perhaps because I'm not having any. The 8:30 crowd is not my crowd; if my people are here, I have NO idea where to find them.

This morning is full of down-time. Psych study at 8:30, 10:30, and some elusive online study to do, once I track down the url. Why am I here again? Oh well, I suppose here's just as good a place as any to waste away the morning. I could study. In a place like this, an atmosphere like this one, I almost could. But, let's be real. It's 8:30. I'd likely fall asleep.

The 8 AM bus ride is full of pleasant surprises- the smiling (not yet awake) face of Jonny, the sound of someone calling my name from behind me- a friend from home, and a chance for a quick catch-up conversation. REAL people ride the bus at 8 AM. The mid-afternoon buses are reserved for the slackers and the unemployed, the senior citizen population, and those whose booze cruise from the night before is either just ending, winding up again, or is still in full swing. But not so at 8. At 8 AM, it's all business. Just being there, on the bus, at such an hour makes me feel more productive. Already I pat myself on the back for making it out of bed, out the door.

It's now 9:30. Having completed task A of my ABC's I now have no idea what I do with myself. Thoughts cross my mind on the escalator. At 9:30 AM, I imagine these thoughts to be profound, and I seek out a place from which to share them with the world. It turns out, they are not, but that will not likely be realized until at least noon, when I am awake enough to return to myself. At 9:30 AM, the witty, quippy me is still in bed. Somber, retrospective, strangely awake me is currently presiding.

I have classes today at 2:30 PM, and a lunch date at noon. The day is so empty it echoes. What does one DO on a 9:30 campus, on an 8:30 day? Is there life after bed and breakfast? I'm holding out for the sweet familiarity that will surely hit me around 11AM, aka a reasonable hour to be out of bed and in action. But for the moment, there is nothing to do but to be. here.

And try to make it count for something.