I Accidentally Implied I Was a Prostitute

27 09 2010

A meeting was set to occur between my WRIT101 professor and myself at noon on a Tuesday. Professor Myers and I were going to discuss my research project, and I didn’t want to be late. The one problem was that I had completely forgotten what his office number was – I remembered the building’s name, but the odds of my finding his office by searching every single classroom in the building were narrow. So, I figured I’d start early.

I stalked the Halls of Corbin for a solid half hour with no results, not even after listening for my professor’s signature resonant baritone. I was bordering on giving up when a kind lady noticed my desperation. She offered to show me where his room was, and let me use her computer to look up the number. After she showed me the way, I entered the room.

Myers said, “Good afternoon, Margaret.”

“Good afternoon, sir. It’s okay if I’m early?”

“Not a problem at all. Take a seat. Why are you so early?”

I shrugged. “I couldn’t remember the number for your office, and I got here much earlier to search around for it, but then a nice lady helped me.”

“Well,” he laughed, “never underestimate people’s capacity to take pity on you.”

“Psh, tell me about it. I got a cool two-thousand bucks last year because someone took pity on me.”

Dead silence followed for a clear and strenuous five seconds.

“…Let’s just leave that there,” he finally managed to stammer.

I realized what I’d just implied. “Oh, it was just a college grant…”

“No, no really, let’s get on with the meeting.”

I stop to think. The incident I was referring to had happened a full year ago, when I began the semester that marked the end of my meager college savings fund. I had no idea how I was going to pay for the spring semester, and was at my wits’ end. I couldn’t find a job in my city’s crappy market, and I had absolutely no work-study opportunities, since my parents are freaking loaded but want me to earn my own way through school. When I finally made it through hours of crossing campus to speak to different people only to reach the same financial aid advisor I’d seen at the very start, I broke down into exhausted tears. Taking pity on me, the advisor had told me to cheer up, and presented me with a list of options, as well as giving me an ACE grant, a free grant from the University. I’d gotten two-thousand dollars with only three hours of marching and a sudden, emotional outburst. Not too shabby.

But barring wasting more of my professor’s patience with that story, I was going to imply to him that I’d done something much, much more socially inappropriate than burst into tears. Was I really going to leave him with that impression of myself?

Heck yes. It was way too funny to just throw it all away.




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