It has been said that the bumblebee, aerodynamically speaking, cannot not possibly fly; the bumblebee knows nothing from aerodynamics, and flies anyway.  I suspect that this is crap – that would mean that the laws of physics are that of Wile E. Coyote, and as long as we do not look down, gravity will not apply.

Whatever this little cliché (look ma, diacritics) may lack from a natural/physical sciences perspective, it probably does have some validity from a psychological one.  I warn you, this is going to be a GSS-related post, so if you are sick and tired of me blogging about him, I guarantee you that you are not alone.  I too have had it up to my eyeballs in GSS-related topics, but I can’t seem to quit them entirely.  But to proceed:  so he’s back, and I experienced the whole bump-a-dump-dump heart-rattling reaction (which has become increasingly inconvenient to me).  I tried to open with a witty greeting, but pretty much sucked wind on that one.  He responded half-heartedly, and I slunk off to my table.  Fortunately, one of my regular students was there, and that gave me something to do instead of fretting about his lack of enthusiasm for seeing me.

This is where the aerodynamics of the bumblebee come in.  Back in those halcyon days, when my crush was wedged in the back of my subconscious (along with what’s left of my knowledge of Polish, the ability to sight read and all knowledge related to trigonometry), I flirted like the wind.  I had game.  A-game, as a matter of fact.  But like the bumblebee and Wile E. Coyote, the moment I had any significant conscious knowledge of what I was doing, I became my nerdy self again.  Today, I flailed so badly, I could have sworn that I felt the strap of my head gear, and could hear the faint plucking of my rubber bands. 

Just when I thinking about what a socially awkward doofus I, GSS comes over and sits next to me.  We have a lovely conversation, and I’m feeling that all is right with the world.  But then he switches tables (to work with a student), and all attempts by me to engage in a little mild flirting (only when appropriate) had me wishing that it was not a physical impossibility to kick my own ass.  But I soldiered on, working with students (which is, after all, what they pay me for).  Until it was time for me to go.  You would think that someone of my level of perception would have told themselves to let it go and just slip out as discreetly as possible.  But that would imply that I have the ability to control my flirting skill level, which I may have mentioned before, er…sucks.  So I stood there, babbling, and I got the “hook,” albeit subtly and discreetly from him.

If you are not familiar with old movies, you may not be familiar with the hook.  I don’t know if it really existed, but in movies depicting the vaudeville stage life, a tanking performer, after much booing from the crowd, would be removed from the stage via a giant wooden hook.  And that, dear readers, is what I got this afternoon.  It pains me to admit it, but there you have it.

And this is why I wish I had the ability to drop the whole thing, and pretend as if I never had a crush on the guy.  I’m willing to give it the old college try.  After all, this is too much work.  Do you know how the Ex and I started going out?  We met at a mutual friend’s party (KSP’s, to be exact), had a conversation.  A few weeks later, he asked KSP for my number.  Within the space of 2 weeks, he called me up, asked me out, and we went out on a real date.  That’d be nice.  This shit…I’m too old for it.