Tarred and Feathered

A couple weeks ago, I got a brand new jacket -- and just in time, since Winter is kicking us in the stomachs with her fury.  Now, I'm by no means "metro," but this thing is stylish, people.  And oh how comfortable; it surrounded me in a bubble of warm awesomeness as I strode pridefully across campus and into my classroom early last week.  Unfortunately, buildings on my campus have absolutely no temperature regulation, so the heat flooding into the room makes it feel like a midsummer day in Death Valley.  "Shit," I thought to myself.  "I was hoping to show off my new threads for a bit longer, but whudduya gonna do, right?"  So I reluctantly took off the jacket and placed it oh-so-carefully across a chair beside the podium and started class.

Not more than 5 minutes in, I hear giggling and snickering from the students.  All teachers/professors know this feeling; things start racing through your mind: "dammit, what's happening, did I just do something weird, am I doing something wrong, is my fly open, is all this in my mind, are they laughing at another student??"  This is usually followed by a quick visual scan of myself, the lecture slides, and then the room.  Before my reflexive scan even begins, a girl in the front row says, "Dr. C, you're fuzzy!"

"What?"

"You're fuzzy, you're covered in fuzz stuff," she said.  I looked down, and I wasn't just fuzzy, I looked like I had been tarred and feathered for chrissake.  I quickly realized that the inside lining of my new coat decided to betray me that day -- my new coat and I were now frienemies.  To make matters worse, I was wearing a black shirt and the fuzz/lint from the inside of the coat was light gray.  Awesome.  So I continued lecturing, trying to slyly pick off pieces of fuzz every time I turned around or stood behind something.  But by the end of the class I didn't really give a shit anymore, so I was just standing there, awkwardly picking away at every part of my upper body that I could possibly reach, in front of everyone.  Class ended, I grabbed my frienemy in frustration, and headed to my office.

The first thing I see in my office is a post-it note on my computer screen reminding me that I had an important meeting with the department head and dean in about 15 minutes.  I thought "I can't show up looking like a gray newly-hatched chicken, I gotta fix this shit."  So I darted to my office door, shut it, locked it -- darted to the windows, shut the blinds.  Off comes the shit -- that's the only way I can reach all the fuzz.  I toss my shirt onto the office couch to survey the fuzzage -- it's everywhere!  What the hell, are you serious?!?  I don't have a lint brush, so I'm reduced to using my bare hands to furiously wipe, rub, and pick away at every square inch of my black shirt.  Fuzz is flying around in the air and sticking to my face, arms, and chest.  Only 10 minutes left before I have to be in my meeting.

And that's when I felt it.  The unmistakable sensation that someone was watching me, staring right through me.  I stopped and slowly turned my head with a long mental sigh.  Apparently, I either didn't close the door, or didn't lock the door, I can't remember which.  My lab manager was standing in the open doorway, her jaw on the floor (I also think she may have been shaking just a little bit).  As our gazes locked, time stopped, and I immediately saw the situation from her point of view.  A girl in her mid-20s is staring at her shirtless boss, who's facing away from her, awkwardly bent over his couch, making quick and jerky movements that she can't see or understand, all the while grunting and mumbling under his breath.

At the present time, I'm certain of a few things: (1) my poor lab manager has been scarred for life; (2) I will always keep a lint brush in my office from now on; (3) I may be having a different kind of meeting with the department head and dean at some point in the near future, haha; and (4) I'll be double- or triple-checking the way I lock doors for the rest of my life.



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