Sitting at home tonight, I remembered one of those vintage moments that make up the fabric of my life. It wasn't big or flashy, but thinking about it makes me smile still. Those moments that make our lives truly worth living.
Years and years ago when I was a junior in college, I was helping out at a very nerdy convention. Not nerdy like LARPing or anime or comics. Nerdy like particle physics. I was a quasi-celebrity since I'd been recognized by the Department of Energy a couple of years prior. I wasn't there to do particle physics--my interest already waning while still working for the DOE--but rather to do tech support and teach an introductory Java seminar.
There was a girl there. Actually, there were more girls than you'd imagine there being at a two-day symposium on the state of particle physics. But there were girls and there was this girl. Short black hair, doe eyes, willowy figure, tall enough to look eye-to-eye with most of the men in attendance, upturned nose with a then-rare tiny blue stud, and just a hint of a British accent. Ask any guy that went to the symposium, and he'll tell you about her.
During the Saturday night mixer, she wore a slinky, shimmering silver dress and danced with a terrible abandon. I wish I could say that I didn't pay her heed as I sat in the back of the bar drinking beer with old friends, but that would be a lie. I watched as nerd after nerd approached her and was repulsed.
The next morning, deep in the throes of bottle-flu, I fought valiantly with the recalcitrant computer at the registration desk. Slung back in a chair and muttering darkly about Compaq, I didn't see her coming.
What happens next is just one in a string of remarkably similar events in my life.
"What does your shirt say?" she asked.
"Something about grand unification," I said shortly.
She stood there mincingly for about half a minute, and all I could think of was how I hated the new Pentium II machines. Eventually, she shook her head and walked off.
Maybe half an hour later, I realized she'd been trying to start a conversation. Then as now, I smiled for the level of blindness even someone so perceptive can display.
Years and years ago when I was a junior in college, I was helping out at a very nerdy convention. Not nerdy like LARPing or anime or comics. Nerdy like particle physics. I was a quasi-celebrity since I'd been recognized by the Department of Energy a couple of years prior. I wasn't there to do particle physics--my interest already waning while still working for the DOE--but rather to do tech support and teach an introductory Java seminar.
There was a girl there. Actually, there were more girls than you'd imagine there being at a two-day symposium on the state of particle physics. But there were girls and there was this girl. Short black hair, doe eyes, willowy figure, tall enough to look eye-to-eye with most of the men in attendance, upturned nose with a then-rare tiny blue stud, and just a hint of a British accent. Ask any guy that went to the symposium, and he'll tell you about her.
During the Saturday night mixer, she wore a slinky, shimmering silver dress and danced with a terrible abandon. I wish I could say that I didn't pay her heed as I sat in the back of the bar drinking beer with old friends, but that would be a lie. I watched as nerd after nerd approached her and was repulsed.
The next morning, deep in the throes of bottle-flu, I fought valiantly with the recalcitrant computer at the registration desk. Slung back in a chair and muttering darkly about Compaq, I didn't see her coming.
What happens next is just one in a string of remarkably similar events in my life.
"What does your shirt say?" she asked.
"Something about grand unification," I said shortly.
She stood there mincingly for about half a minute, and all I could think of was how I hated the new Pentium II machines. Eventually, she shook her head and walked off.
Maybe half an hour later, I realized she'd been trying to start a conversation. Then as now, I smiled for the level of blindness even someone so perceptive can display.
lize:
ah, a "lost" connection can sometimes be more memorable than if there had been an interlude of sorts. funny how that works, huh?