phoenix {rising} |
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Wayward Youth Eddie's news, however, was bad: he's not going to have time to see me. He's really just in the city because his father, who'd lived in New York, died at the beginning of the school year, and so there are various arrangements to be made. However, he included the sentence "You ARE a very special student," so all is heartily forgiven, even the couple of weeks of anxiety because I'd sent him a quick little email (seriously, this was maybe four sentences) thanking him for his niceness to me throughout the year and hadn't gotten a response and thus commenced freaking out about the possibility that I'd stepped over some line that I didn't know existed. But I didn't! And I'm a very special student! Rah. Experiments in approachability vibes continue. I finally caught up with the Wayward Youth, Eleanor's Morris-dancing group, yesterday (it was terribly nice to see Eleanor, we hugged and shrieked about growing up and turning into normal people—I told her my story; she has a boyfriend) and I was standing watching them learn a new dance, standing, standing, standing and knowing that one of the boys of the troupe, someone who wasn't learning the new dance, was watching me. And I stood there, and I thought, for the hell of it, I am sending out approachability vibes. He came over and talked to me. Then he wouldn't go away. He hovered on the edge of my conversation with Eleanor, as I told my risqué-for-me story and we giggled. He would not go away. People like me, people like me. I should show them that I like them back and write all the emails and PMs I owe. Finish the box o' stuff I'm getting together for Claire. Call. Be in contact. Yes. |
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