You don’t know what it’s like to stand in front of the mirror, look at your own naked body and wonder if he thinks of you in a sexual way (I hope he does).
You don’t know what it’s like to go to class the next morning and put these thoughts to the side and write your name on the attendance sheet and pretend to think of nothing as he connects his laptop to the TV presentation screens so we can all see what material he’s prepared for the day.
You don’t know what it’s like to stand downstairs in the kitchen, excited because he’s here and you’re here and the sun is setting while a pot of spaghetti boils on the stovetop and he’s putting the plates on the table for the two of you and the air is humid with excitement. You smile because he’s suggested a new show to watch and his excitement is endearing, the way his eyes light up and seeing it makes your chest and shoulders lift with good-feeling-feelings.
This, of course, has never happened.
You don’t know what it’s like to climb the stairs in the foreign languages building up to the sixth floor (elevators scare me) and feel unsure about whether your heart is pounding from the exercise or because this is a chance to see him again. My lungs burn a little so I figure it’s the first, but my stomach is doing flips so maybe it’s the second. Emotions roll around inside of me.
You don’t know what it’s like to cross the corridor feeling triumphant and uneasy, away from the stairwell and pass by office doors sometimes open and sometimes not. The open doors reveal focused, official-looking professors typing away at computers, and it makes my heart sink a little. I don’t want a closed door or serious business, distance inside room 611. I don’t want distance or rejection. I’m reminded that I’m here to attend office hours and not to stare dreamily into his eyes (god I can’t believe I’m writing that) or ask him about his life story and whether he wants two children or three.
You don’t know what it’s like to approach room 611, see that the door is partially open, propped open with a doorstopper and wonder what it would be like to have that door closed with the two of us inside. It’s of course wildly inappropriate and that leaves a bad taste in my mouth and I don’t really want the disapproval of the unfriendly looking professors wondering why the door is closed with the two of us inside but I step forward and knock and without waiting for a response I push open the door and there he is. His gray metal desk faces the right wall of the room, not quite the same wall that encloses the door I’ve just opened and there’s a red prayer-style candle featuring Steve Carrell (we love a man with a sense of humor) and a small golden trophy with his name on it and his laptop is propped up on a stand and a knockoff Mac magic keyboard below it (we stan a man who cares about his posture and his wallet). The session goes on smoothly and in a blur. He is attentive and eager to please but all you can think about is his body so close to yours (finally!). I can’t even make eye contact with him. The most I can do it look at his chin, his hair, his shoulders, until I realize I have no more questions, and casual conversations feel like too much, so I smile at him (or at least I hope I did) and scurry out of room 611.
You don’t what it’s like to soar down those stairs, exuberant and feeling capable of flight, body humming with the sensation that I’m the luckiest girl in the world. I must share the good feeling with someone, so once I get to the bus terminal to head on home I call my sister. She picks up. She’s driving and her boyfriend is with her. I tell them about how I just got help on my essay from that really cute guy from my French class and they respond positively. I’m just so happy! you tell them, and you can hear them chuckle. Maybe they are remembering the good ol days, the initial days, of their relationship. They congratulate you and encourage you to keep hanging out with him.
…
You don’t know what it’s like to sit outside a boba shop just a street away from campus a few weeks later and tell your friends about how that cute guy in your French class is actually your teacher. They get silent and I feel forced to cough up an explanation. I was hoping they’d be sympathetic to my situation (god knows I already feel embarrassed enough) but instead I feel silly and slightly shamed. They look at you, unbelieving, and I change the topic.
You don’t know what it’s like to go to class and confine yourself to the student-teacher relationship, holding out for the agonizing 7 weeks remaining until you can finally make a move on him.
AmyLeeThinks 