Give Me A T! Give Me An A!

The other day I was standing outside of Fisher Bennett after class debating if I should (a) finally buy a notebook for the classes I am no longer adding or dropping (nodding for two weeks only gets you so far), (b) maintain my meathead pre-spring break mentality and head to Pottruck or (c) ignore both my syllabi and Britney comeback body objectives and disappear into Naked Chocolate for cupcakes until someone notices  that all of the pink ones are gone. It was in the midst of this reverie that a TA I had a year ago walked by.

The TA and I grew friendly during class when we discovered that he had a less evolved version of my musical taste, and thus a flirtation began. He was a grad student, four years older than myself, and though he had absolutely no sense of direction, he tended to drop things a lot and I enjoyed looking at his tush in Levi’s.

Finally we agreed to sidestep the mentor-mentee boundary and had a four-hour coffee date after class. Later that week, we “happened” to run into each other getting beers (well, HE was getting a beer. Mine was for prop purposes) at a party. Of course things only started getting good as finals loomed, the time of year when I tend to look strung out and resemble a Flintstone. What could have been an awesome dynamic was halted, and it sadly concluded with goodbye texts before I headed to New York for the summer. I never saw him or heard from him again.

There is something very sexy about the Forbidden TA (and I’m talkin’ grad student TA’s, not the TA’s who invite you to their frat parties the first day of class). Obviously, Gossip Girl has followed suit now that the Yale-bound whiny scrawny one has moved on from the Brown-bound blond one and her boobs to her mentor, a teacher who is probably our age in real life. TA’s are older; filled with knowledge (except for mine), experience, and most importantly, authority. Who doesn’t love to be told what to do, or better yet, to conquer the authoritarian?

Sadly, as my TA walked by, reeking of MJ (accessorizing his scent with a joint behind his ear), he didn’t notice me standing there, puzzled by how to occupy myself for the next 15 seconds to twelve hours. Truthfully, his tushie still looked pretty good, but now that I wasn’t in his classroom, I saw him for what he really was: Clueless. Arrogant. High.

My professor ended up grading all of our work that semester, and I got an A in the class--I worked hard. And in the end, I decided to buy a notebook on my way to Pottruck.