So I almost had one of those perfect romantic-comedy meet-cutes this afternoon. I’m walking through the student union in my usual post-teaching daze, when a rather lovely young woman taps me on the shoulder and asks if I can help this man she thought she saw fall out of his wheelchair on the mall between the union and library. So we get to the door and see that no, he didn’t fall out of his chair, he’d climbed out; and he was currently engaged in diligently chalking notice of some political rally or other on the pavement. I complimented her on her thoughtfulness, though – and fortunately, “meet-cute” wasn’t what was on her mind, as I would have had zero clue what to say after that. (The scale of incapacitating attractiveness, incidentally, has several degrees. Causing the tongue to turn into a useless, flopping beast rather like a disabled (if marginally less enormous) sea elephant is one; slightly below that is finding that gravity has gone rogue and affects random nearby objects up to and including one’s own self; very near the top of the scale is when you are compelled to whimper like a pup. Anyway.)
Then again, I’m disqualified for romantic-comedy meet-cutes on the grounds that I’m happily married. Now if I’d been a career-obsessed young attorney in a loveless marriage to a lumpish harridan with a QVC addiction and then met a sassy young African-American paralegal working for the public defender’s office; or a schlumpy middle-aged idealist puttering away on a novel in a dingy room, who suddenly meets an idealistic young philanthropist possessed of an insouciant joie de vivre and who just happens to realize I’m the next John Grisham; or a troubled but concerned cop with a sketchy past and a drinking problem whose naive but goodhearted young partner sets me up on a blind date with his lovely social-worker neighbor, maybe that would have worked.
(ps: I apologize for the absolutely appalling pun that titles this entry. I know it displays a lot of gall, but the parties responsible have been sacked.)