Friday, October 13, 2006

On Love, Charisma, and Crushes

First, go watch this video (the second one) again. Just because. And just because it makes me feel good. Keep that feeling.

Second, if you are my eldest daughter, go away. You've Been Warned.

Third, please know that my daughter has the sweetest, most endearing crush on her science teacher. (And if YOU are still reading this, Eldest Daughter, you should Go Away. I'm not going to tease you or embarrass you. Us adults would like to remember that first blush of a true crush. The one that makes your face red and your palms sweat.)


My daughter has been gifted with a wonderful set of teachers this year. Her favorite is her science teacher; I met him for the first time on Parent's Night. To a critical eye, he's not drop-dead gorgeous, but then I usually don't trust those guys too much anyway. He's wiry, short, athletic, and animated. He clearly loves teaching and has an interest in getting "his kids" curious about science and educated about the scientific method. He's youngish, maybe late-thirties, and he has a deep-set Orlando Bloom eyes tossed in with a wide Willem Dafoe mouth. I can see why she likes him

So, the other morning I was running an errand at her school, just before school started. She asked me to hang around with her until her first class started, so I did. We wandered over to the faculty parking lot, and there we saw a teacher coming through the gate towards class.

He was small, walking confidently towards us with a motorcycle helmet under one arm and a briefcase dangling from the other hand. He was dressed all in black motorcycle leathers: leather jacket, quilted black leather pants, and heavy boots. His hair was tussled from the helmet. As he passed us, he raised the briefcase to my daughter and said, "Hi" to me. Just as the word left his wide mouth, I recognized him as my daughter's science teacher.

And then the squeakiest voice I have ever heard came from my daughter at my side. Speaking so fast it was difficult to separate the words in my head she whisper-squealed, "Oh-My-God-he-rides-a-motorcycle. I-didn't-know-he-rides-a-motorcycle!"

I hurt myself, I did, trying hard not to laugh. Because that would hurt her, and I don't want her to be hurt. But that squeal of fearful, anxious, covert delight will stay with me for a long time.

I remember what that felt like. Poor thing.

4 comments:

Doug Hoffman said...

At least she didn't use trope in a sentence ;)

Kristie (J) said...

Oh you just brought such a smile to my face reading this one :)

Suisan said...

I feel kind of bad for her, in all her fluttery delight. It's sort of painful watching your daughter fall head over heels for someone who isn't going to return that adoration.

On the other hand, he's been thoroughly wonderful with her. She was complaining to him that her friends don't wunderstand that she doesn't like pizza. Never has, and they mildly tease her about it because they don't understand how any eleven year old can't like pizza.

So Mr. Rogers (unfortunate name) says, "Because you're so smart, you're going to find yourself in that situation a lot in your life. People who are really intelligent don't always fit in with the pizza eating crowd."

I love him for her.

ag said...

Awww ... that's so kind of him. My son doesn't like pizza, btw.

oh, to be young, and carefree again!