I have suddenly realized that if I had a single reader he would certainly be laughing at me as a most ridiculous raw youth, still stupidly innocent, putting himself forward to discuss and criticize what he knows nothing about.
Of course, there's a new translation of that line which goes a little something like:
It has just occured to me that if I had at least one reader, he would probably burst out laughing at me, as at a most ridiculous adolescent who, having preserved his stupid innocence, barges with his reasons and solutions into things he doesn't understand.
I sit in the second to last row in my Mass Media class. It's set up in rows of tables, with two people per table. I sit against the right wall, where there's only table before the aisle. I'm usually the only one back there, so I can spread out and do the daily crossword puzzles in peace, and I can put my feet up on the chair next to me and get all comfortable while I'm watching the crappy clips of whatever it is we're studying this week.
In the middle of a clip of Miami Vice (Have I told you how incredibly easy this class is?) a male silhouette plods up the stairs and makes it to my row. The jerk. I put my feet down and move my stuff from "his" side of the little desk thing.
We're watching the clip, with the occasional laugh. Something nudges my foot, and then stays there. I look over, and he's smiling. I can't tell if it's from the clip or from someone trying to play footsie with me. I tap my foot. He taps his, slightly encroaching more and more on my adidas hightops. Fine. Two can play at this game. I bring my shin to his, letting our pants leg touch, fabric to fabric.
I continue to watch the clip, which has now switched over to Hill Street Blues. He shakes his leg, rubbing it against mine, and out of the corner of my eye, I can see him turn his head, but as I turn mine he turns his to continue watching the show.
This is getting fun. I put both my arms on the table thing, and let my left one linger over to his side of the partition. He moves his right one parallel to mine. I scooch mine in closer. He moves his in. My forearm moves down a little more. Our elbows are now touching. I have an erection. We move our hands in closer, our pinkies almost touching.
The clip ends, and the powerpoint flashes on the screen, some bullet points about how audiences in the 80s were the first generation to be raised by television, and therefore producers had to come up with more clever tricks for a more television savvy viewership.
Moment of truth. I put my hand on his knee. More assertive than I'm accustomed to being. The lights are half-way up. There are a few guys in the row behind us. I have to be careful. I take notes with my right hand as my left is planted firmly on his thigh, just past his kneecap. I keep an eye on him, the corner of my eye, really. It's time for a clip from Moonlighting.
As the lights go out, I move my left leg, which is still nuzzled against his, and wrap it inside his, so that now the inside of our shoes are touching, my shin aligned against his calf. I've seen a few episodes of Moonlighting, and this one is pretty dumb. It's a good thing he's here. He brings his right hand down, and takes mine in his. We do that awkward holding hands thing, where we're not so much holding hands but tracing our fingers between each others. Pressing our palms together would be too intimate. There always need to be space.
I look over when the lights go up, and he's not completely unfortunate looking, which is my way of saying that he's cute yet still in my league. The lights are up, I move my hand back and start packing up my stuff. I catch his glace for the first time.
After class we have an awkward conversation. He's an English major, and a junior, too. We both think the class is pretty easy. I mention that I usually sit in that same spot, in the back, on the right. He smiles and says he'll keep that in mind.
So now tomorrow I have to make sure to get all dolled up for class. I am a dork. A giddy dork, but a dork nevertheless.