My senior year of high school, dating made a disastrous first impression on me. The first boy I dated and kissed was, in retrospect, an unequivocal catalyst to stay away from men (see “Him and Her” for details). I never consciously swore off men, and indeed, I indulged in plenty of fantasies about my perfect husband. He would be smart, handsome, generous, sensitive, blad blah blah … These hackneyed, universal ideals swirled around in my head, and while part of me loved going to that special, fantastical place, part of me cynically remembered the horrible experience I had had with love. Always the wanna-be optimist, I figured that college would bring me my man.
And so I set off for a prestigious college, and in the midst of new friends, a change in major from history to biology, my first real winter, extracurriculars, and academic pressure, the question of finding a boyfriend was somehow left unanswered. There were occasional coquettish looks exchanged and a few interested guy friends, but I never felt any sort of connection. The spark I believed represented attraction was never ignited that first year away from home. I was never giddy with the excitement of a woman in love or overcome with the bashfulness of a schoolgirl. By the time I returned home for my first summer, I had not only contemplated but almost accepted the possibility that I would become one of those women—the single, fifty-year-old who had a wonderful life with friends, a dog, a meaningful job, a beautiful home, and no husband.
I expected sophomore year began afresh, and I reveled in the newfound simplicity that would envelope my life. I thought I could study hard, laugh all night with my roommates, and enjoy the single girl life—forever.
But the first day of class, I arrived at the lecture hall eagerly anticipating the rush of knowledge to wash over me. Then I saw him. Yes, he was certainly smart, handsome, generous, sensitive, blah blah blah … But more than all of that, he was just beautiful. I couldn’t help but stare. His eyes were alight with that intangible yet undeniably strong spirit so often missing in the other guys I knew, and his smile was beyond words. When he opened his mouth to talk, I felt my stomach flip and my mouth go dry. Throughout the entire lecture, I barely heard a word about somatic cell nuclear transfer or Dolly the Sheep. Instead, I was busy fantasizing about life with this magical man. I was falling faster than I had thought possible.
My previous drought had suddenly been purged from memory by this veritable flood of emotion. Every spare moment I had, I contentedly thought about him. Sometimes, as I walked down the street and happened across a sweet little thought of him, I would smile to myself—an uncontrollable, bold smile. At night, as I turned my head into my pillow, I closed my eyes with sweet dreams ahead.
The dreams always had to come an end.
He was not mine.
He never would be mine.
He didn’t even know my name.
Yet I was hopelessly in love with him.
He was my professor.
