Meanderings on Aging
Ok, I know I have already written today, but I have an interesting new topic to discuss. I am hoping to air my thoughts on this matter and get it off of my mind. So here goes.
Today while running some errands, I saw my freshman seminar professor, a man who, while teaching me to write in a more academic fashion, taught me that someday I want to be in a position where I am sleeping with a professor, preferably in a married relationship (but hey, I'm flexible). I mean, this guy has got it all: he's blazingly smart, fiercely good looking, and has this really perfectly scathing wit. And he likes Morrissey, and in my experience, the more a man loves brooding English musicians, the better potential mate he is. ANYWAY, he is ideal, the kind of guy you write home about using all the flowery language that you did when you were 16.
Last year, he left William and Mary under heavy suspicion, since his was a tenure-track position, and a good one at that. I had heard that he slept with a student, and thus, had to get the hell out since his wife teaches in the same department, and well, the ole W&M doesn't exactly smile on the whole student/teacher thing. I was intrigued, and in between cries of "WHY WASN'T IT ME???!!!" followed by spells of binge drinking, I tried to figure out all about the whole deal. Needless to say, I didn't find out anything. William and Mary did a great job of sweeping the whole thing under the rug, and so I was out of luck.
So today, I see him. He was driving a fairly inexpensive, slightly ugly car with Maryland plates. Definitely a rental, probably from the Baltimore airport (at this point, I want to thank all the hours of Law and Order that have allowed me to make that judgement). He's loading his kids into the car, and looks slightly less hot and a little, well, war-wounded. I mean, you could tell it was him, but there was definitely something different. So I come home and do what any self-respecting semi-stalker would do: I Googled him. Turns out he's teaching at this little known college in Colorado, some place that's a great step down (at least it seems to me) from William and Mary (there was also this article about him having problems with the moving truck company that moved him to Colorado, but that's neither here nor there).
So here's the thing (see, there's a point to this). It made me sad. Not because that now I will definitely not get the chance to take him to a cheesy seafood restaurant and then walk on the beach and then go to a cheesy hotel room...you get the picture. But because he didn't make it. When I had him as a professor, I thought of him as someone who had made it. He was a parent, a married guy, a guy who owned a station wagon, but he hadn't sold out. He was still smart, and still liberal, and still cool. For me, he was a role model. He was proof that you don't have to turn into John Q. Dumb-American the minute that you get out of college and enter the real world. He had bought into it all, but he was still the kind of guy that you could talk to, and not about mortgages and soccer games. He still used the word "patriarchy" in dinner conversation. He was everything that I want to be when I am that age.
But somehow it didn't work out. He's now this divorced guy, a guy who rarely sees his kids and probably goes to cheesy bars where he drinks imported beer and tries to talk to female graduate students, who if they are halfway intelligent, at least have a one-night stand with him. He hasn't shucked any kind of convention. He's just a guy, another American tragedy, another guy who screwed the pooch per se, and lost a lot. He's not a guy to look up to--he got bitch-slapped by our quick-fix culture, and he didn't fight back.
So now, at least for the moment, I have a pretty dour opinion of growing older. It seems to me that you're just bound to end up unhappy, no matter what. I don't even know why, it just seems like that right now. It's sad to grow older now. You have nothing to look forward to but mini vans and alimony. Yea.
So those are my meanderings. I am going to go stir my fancy French beef dish, and hope that when my man gets home, he realizes that I slaved over a hot stove, and that ergo, he should never cheat on me. Feel free to comment, oh great many people who read this (yeah, Katie, I know you got somethin' to say).
Today while running some errands, I saw my freshman seminar professor, a man who, while teaching me to write in a more academic fashion, taught me that someday I want to be in a position where I am sleeping with a professor, preferably in a married relationship (but hey, I'm flexible). I mean, this guy has got it all: he's blazingly smart, fiercely good looking, and has this really perfectly scathing wit. And he likes Morrissey, and in my experience, the more a man loves brooding English musicians, the better potential mate he is. ANYWAY, he is ideal, the kind of guy you write home about using all the flowery language that you did when you were 16.
Last year, he left William and Mary under heavy suspicion, since his was a tenure-track position, and a good one at that. I had heard that he slept with a student, and thus, had to get the hell out since his wife teaches in the same department, and well, the ole W&M doesn't exactly smile on the whole student/teacher thing. I was intrigued, and in between cries of "WHY WASN'T IT ME???!!!" followed by spells of binge drinking, I tried to figure out all about the whole deal. Needless to say, I didn't find out anything. William and Mary did a great job of sweeping the whole thing under the rug, and so I was out of luck.
So today, I see him. He was driving a fairly inexpensive, slightly ugly car with Maryland plates. Definitely a rental, probably from the Baltimore airport (at this point, I want to thank all the hours of Law and Order that have allowed me to make that judgement). He's loading his kids into the car, and looks slightly less hot and a little, well, war-wounded. I mean, you could tell it was him, but there was definitely something different. So I come home and do what any self-respecting semi-stalker would do: I Googled him. Turns out he's teaching at this little known college in Colorado, some place that's a great step down (at least it seems to me) from William and Mary (there was also this article about him having problems with the moving truck company that moved him to Colorado, but that's neither here nor there).
So here's the thing (see, there's a point to this). It made me sad. Not because that now I will definitely not get the chance to take him to a cheesy seafood restaurant and then walk on the beach and then go to a cheesy hotel room...you get the picture. But because he didn't make it. When I had him as a professor, I thought of him as someone who had made it. He was a parent, a married guy, a guy who owned a station wagon, but he hadn't sold out. He was still smart, and still liberal, and still cool. For me, he was a role model. He was proof that you don't have to turn into John Q. Dumb-American the minute that you get out of college and enter the real world. He had bought into it all, but he was still the kind of guy that you could talk to, and not about mortgages and soccer games. He still used the word "patriarchy" in dinner conversation. He was everything that I want to be when I am that age.
But somehow it didn't work out. He's now this divorced guy, a guy who rarely sees his kids and probably goes to cheesy bars where he drinks imported beer and tries to talk to female graduate students, who if they are halfway intelligent, at least have a one-night stand with him. He hasn't shucked any kind of convention. He's just a guy, another American tragedy, another guy who screwed the pooch per se, and lost a lot. He's not a guy to look up to--he got bitch-slapped by our quick-fix culture, and he didn't fight back.
So now, at least for the moment, I have a pretty dour opinion of growing older. It seems to me that you're just bound to end up unhappy, no matter what. I don't even know why, it just seems like that right now. It's sad to grow older now. You have nothing to look forward to but mini vans and alimony. Yea.
So those are my meanderings. I am going to go stir my fancy French beef dish, and hope that when my man gets home, he realizes that I slaved over a hot stove, and that ergo, he should never cheat on me. Feel free to comment, oh great many people who read this (yeah, Katie, I know you got somethin' to say).
posted by Southern Belle at 4:44 PM
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