Speaking of faux pas, last week I may or may not have straddled my professor…
It would be fair to say that I have developed crushes on almost every teacher of the Y chromosome I’ve had since the 11th grade. So it should come as no surprise that I sort of kind of have the hots for my slightly-older-slightly-married-slightly-suffering-from-male-pattern-baldness-but-nonetheless-dreamy professeur à la Sorbonne. Let’s call him Professeur Ribot for the sake of confidentiality.
So the other night when I was on le métro, I see this DILF (dad I’d like to…) across from me and realize that it’s none other than PROFESSEUR RIBOT! Knowing me and my balance (or lack there of) and the unsteadiness of the metro, I decide to play it cool. I’m telling myself, Okay, Lucy, don’t do anything embarrassing, just walk toward the door without— “WOAH, OUCH, DÉSOLÉE, oh mon dieu…” —falling. We’re not talking a little slip where I catch myself on one of the handles in the metro and nervously laugh. Oh, no, this was a full-blown one leg on each side of, girls in the face of, completely ON TOP OF my professor wipeout.
If you’d like a visual, I’d say the fall was something along the lines of this:
But the aftermath was more like this:
On the bright side, he didn’t make me present on la tristesse majesteuse de Racine the next morning!