Schoolgirl fantasy, fulfilled.

No, it doesn't involve him. Not this time. (And yes – disproving the logic on which ill-advised, ill-received "Well, you’re still young, you can just try again!" encouragement is based – I realize I'm clearly outing myself as a rather old lady in revealing that I believe him to be the stuff of schoolgirl fantasies.)

(As an aside, and to explain the "not this time": one of the loveliest surprise hugs I have ever received was from him himself. Back in the day, after he'd segued from playing child genius to playing independent filmmaker and after I'd segued from playing schoolgirl to playing college girl, but before he came out and before I became a demure little wife with eyes only for her much-beloved husband, a friend and I scraped together enough cash to snag two back-row tickets for Rent but not enough for parking at the downtown big-city theater where it was playing. So another friend kindly offered to drive us there and back. She dropped us off behind the theater, telling us to return to that same place for the eventual pickup. Little did we know that this randomly chosen spot was in fact right by the backstage exit – at least, not until we were there, waiting for our chauffeur, and him himself opened a door and sauntered out. "Oh my god, I used to be the biggest Doogie Howser fan!" I blurted out before I could stop myself. He smiled, and opened his arms. "Come here!" he whispered sultrily. Okay, it wasn't a whisper, and it wasn't sultry, but he did indeed say it, and I did indeed do it. Schoolgirl fantasy the first, fulfilled.)

(As another aside, I'd poke fun at the genderedness of the French language by designating the friend on drop-off/pick-up duty as a chauffeuse rather than a chauffeur, except that I once used chauffeuse in explaining that I do not drive in Switzerland and quickly learned that the word does not apply to a female driver but rather to a female who does not, um, follow up on what she seems to be promising. It might help you to figure out what if you know that the related verb chauffer means "to heat" – literally as well as figuratively, apparently.)

Back to the (other) fantasy. As part of my keep-myself-out-of-trouble-and-better-my-personhood-at-the-same-time program, and also to have a snappy response to this particularly grating question, I've been auditing some university classes. The learning part of the semester ends today, and the next few weeks are allocated to final examinations. As an auditor, though, I have no concern about finals, and every time they're mentioned, I take great pleasure in ignoring everything that is said.

The other day I arrived for the last scheduled cognitive psychology class only to find the auditorium doors firmly closed and the few hundred students milling around outside, some chatting, but most engrossed in their notes. It all looked a bit ... suspicious. Like perhaps this was not just a normal class. Like perhaps a test might be on the agenda. Like perhaps I should have listened a little bit to some test-related discussion.

The doors opened after fifteen minutes and I let myself get swept into the auditorium along with the group. Sure enough, each seat was covered with a face-down bundle of papers, and instructions on the projector screen directed us to sit without looking at the test. This was not the place for me to be, then.

I moved aside and let the remaining students enter before walking back out and setting my bag on a table in the hallway to rummage for my headphones. The teaching assistant, who'd seen me leave, came out to close the door and gestured at me to come back inside. I shook my head. He gave me a puzzled raised-eyebrow look, tapped his watch, and pointed, pointedly, into the auditorium. I shook my head again, smiling meekly. One more bemused glance and he was gone, the door shutting behind him, his shrug, and several hundred test-taking students.

I grinned and walked home.