Last night we went out to dinner. I absolutely LOVE going out to dinner b/c I absolutely HATE to cook.
Driving home from dinner, my h. and I were talking about mean high school teachers. I cannot remember what sparked this conversation. As I was sharing about some of my ghosts from high school past (and by ghosts, I mean, old, snarky high school teachers) the word, biology, may have come up. H. comments that he only took bio in high school and never college. So then, apparently overcome with lethargy from my glutton, I told the following story:
Freshman year of college I had a HUGE crush on my biology professor. He was young, single and had a huge collection of insects. (He might have actually been Grissom.) I am not typically a very studious science student. I actually despise learning science, but my little crush caused me to study extra hard. I would even "accidentally" take items from the lab so I would have a reason to return them later with my best flirtatious, "Oops. I must have had this bunsen burner in my hand and was so busy trying to get to my next class that I didn't realize I had taken it. And it burned my class notes so can you please repeat your lecture from today. Privately. Just for me."
I ended up getting a 100% in the class (legitimately) and I am pretty sure Bill Nye never even knew I had a crush. A few years later I was in a teaching group with his wife (newly married). She was really nice and did not even have compound eyes.
This story in itself is not really the point; albeit somewhat humiliating. It was that after the telling, my h. looks at me and says, "I don't think you've ever told me this story before. This was FRESHMAN year of college?"
And that's when it hit me and there was no real way I could talk my way out of this one. My husband and I started dating freshman year of college. He always thought that I was just a VERY conscientious student. He even disregarded the insect catching net in my backpack as being part of my "quirky" personality.
Last time I ever get the chicken parmesan.
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