Getting Stood Up

At the risk of sounding like a perv, one of my 8th grade boy students is drop dead gorgeous. If I were 14 again, I would certainly be checking my braces for food before smiling in his direction. And not only adorable, but very hip as well-- he wears skateboarding gear and oversized headphones and sometimes we have to reschedule my math tutoring with him for his guitar lesson.

So, obviously, when he stood me up last Tuesday for our daaa..I mean lesson, I was crushed. He had apparently run off with some friends to Chinatown. CHINATOWN?!! My heart burst through my chest, snapping my 48-hour bra, and ricocheted off each rung of my crocheted poncho. It landed with a lonely thud on my TI-82 calculator pressing the 2nd button. After all, that's what I was, second. Second to the fish gut-covered, fake Prada-laden, cheap Boston bus-infested Chinatown. Second.


When I realized he wasn't coming, I reached under my protractor for my secret stash of Malibu. As I stood in the rain sipping my poison, watching raindrops mix with tears and tears mix with Malibu and Malibu mix with yesterday's garbage, it occurred to me that I had to pick myself back up. I couldn't let one blow knock me down. I'm a goddamned grown woman! So, I walked alone back into the classroom, wiped the mascara from my cleavage, placed a red rose in a vase (pronounced vahhhz) on my desk, and did 37 pages of 8th grade math...all on my own. Because ladies, all we have is ourselves, and while there are more fish in the sea, I don't necessarily need to munch on tuna. I think this lesson is clear.