Tuesday I collected a batch of essays and yesterday I went to a coffee house to start grading them, a time-honored technique adopted by graduate students everywhere: grading is often so boring at best and so loathsome at worst, that it helps to go someplace where you've really got to grade stuff, can't get up and check your email or wash your dishes or start a load of laundry instead of plowing through the papers, no matter how awful they are. I sat down with my decaf medium mocha, regular milk but no whipped cream, served in a mug instead of a paper cup (my standard order these days), hauled out my folder and my pen, and started reading. At the top of the stack was an essay that began, "The as an average student I carry many things with me schoolwork, personal items, utensils for completing the tasks at hand, and not to mention the emotional aspect of my day."
The only thing to do at that point was to bury my face in my hands and mutter, "Dear god, help me." Which prompted a man seated at a table near me to say, "Kids getting you down, are they?"
I looked up. "They are indeed," I said. "Just listen to this," and I read him the sentence.
"That's pretty awful," he said. "What are you reading this stuff for?" he asked.
"I'm an English professor," I told him, and asked what he did. He was significantly older than the kind of guy I usually go for, but I have a long history of dating men who are too young for me, and decided recently that I would cultivate an interest in age-appropriate men. This guy had, I learned, a grown son, but he also had a full head of well-coiffed hair, and he was in good shape, wiry and lean. Which is why I felt a twinge of disappointment when he told me he invested in real estate for a living. Shit, I thought. That might mean he's a soulless, money-grubbing Republican. Still, I was even more disappointed when he quit chatting me up in order to turn to his newspaper and his extra large beverage in a paper cup.
So I turned back to my stack of papers and graded a few more. But then the guy and I happened to look up at the same time, and he asked me, "So what made you decide to become an English professor?"
"I love books," I said. "I knew pretty early what I wanted to be when I grew up." I mentioned that I'm a writer too, and he had questions about that. I told him I'd written a book about being a missionary in Taiwan before renouncing organized religion entirely. At that point he was intrigued enough that he left his table and sat down at mine, which was OK with me.
"Before I elaborate, let me ask you this," I said. "Are you devout in any way? Because if you are, I want to avoid telling the story in a way that will offend you." Which was true. But I also knew that if he said, "Jesus Christ is my best friend, as well as my Lord and Savior," I would feel compelled to say to him, after telling him about my mission in the blandest of euphemisms, "Well, it's been lovely chatting with you, but I must get back to these essays."
Instead, he said, "I appreciate religion in general, but I'm more of a spiritual seeker than someone dedicated to a particular path. I spent a lot of time studying things like Buddhism and yoga." Which was pretty much the right answer. It's good to meet a man who can spell chakra.
So we proceeded to spend 45 minutes or so discussing charkas, how gorgeous Arizona is (a topic always dear to my heart), woodworking (which he does and which I have long wanted to do) and chocolate, which he doesn't eat, but which I eat a lot of. Turns out he eats a very healthy diet--that was green tea in his big paper cup, not coffee--but has never had acupuncture.
We also talked about what we like to do for fun. As it happens we both like hiking and don't care for sky diving, and neither of us owns a boat. It was pretty obvious he was interested in me, even before he asked me if I dated much. "Not lately," I said. "Not here. Haven't had the opportunity." And soon thereafter we exchanged email addresses.
He extended his hand, and I, always a fan of a good, firm handshake, was happy to take it. But after shaking my hand, he held onto it, moved his thumb and forefingers down around my fingers, and, quite obviously and deliberately, palpated my knuckles. Given some of the things we'd talked about, I wouldn't have been surprised or distressed had he turned my hand over to reveal my palm so he could inspect my head, heart and life line. But feeling up my knuckles, before he'd even asked me on a real date.... Well, I wasn't sure what kind of girl he thought I was, but I needed to find out. "What's that about?" I asked. "Trying to see if I've got arthritis?"
"I was checking your fluids," he said.
"How are they?" I asked.
"Better than most people's," he said.
"I try not to get dehydrated," I said.
"It's not good for you," he said.
"No," I said.
I admit, no one has ever closed a conversation with me quite that way before. And I also admit flashed for a moment on the rant Sterling Hayden, in the role of Brigadier General Jack D Ripper, delivers about Communist efforts to "impurify our precious bodily fluids" in Dr. Strangelove. But actually the gesture seemed--well, odd but not creepy. Idiosyncratic but not scary. Perhaps I could even be convinced that it was a mark of genuine concern for my well-being.... Well, maybe not. But I still rather hope he emails me before too long.
Why not e-mail him?
Well, I just might email him at some point...or I might not. I have historically been quite willing to pursue men I've been romantically interested in, and I certainly have no hesitation about initiating platonic friendships. But I'm going through this whole thing about rethinking the way I pursue romantic relationships, and part of me thinks that I would rather see if this guy is interested enough in me to email me first.
You will keep us posted about this, won't you? I don't really believe in chance meetings myself, so I'm very interested to see if anything comes of this.
Yeah, I'll keep you posted. But the thing is, I do believe in chance meetings. I also believe in meetings that aren't chance, but I think they're rarer than the other kind.