The Sophian

Issue date: 11/5/09 Section: Opinions

The "Sex and the Smithie" column is written by a different Smith student each week.

I have a crush on my professor. Don't worry though; it's not creepy. It doesn't actually cross boundaries, and no one's going to get fired. But there are days, usually strategically placed on the menstrual cycle, when I see that wrinkling face and melt like Chase-Duckett mac and cheese. This article goes out to anyone who's ever crushed in class, and suddenly realized the doodles weren't about that lame high school ex anymore.

Why not? My professor is well-spoken and well-read, well-traveled, brilliant enough to illuminate subjects in lecture, patient enough to sweat through my homework in spare time, kind enough to pretend we students actually ask good questions and intelligent enough to discuss a long-studied area of expertise. I see this hero day after day, year after year, and we get to know each other in the context of my favorite courses. Who's to say we couldn't hang out - you know, "talk about the subject further?"

That being said, there's a reason this article is anonymous. I'm not traipsing into office hours clad in sultry lingerie any time soon, and while I might joke around with a friend or two, I'd rather my professor didn't know my not-so-well-kept secret. After all, we're all trying to be professional here, even the girl sitting next to you who forgot to wear deodorant again - thank goodness you don't have a crush on her. Or do you?

Anyway, my point is, I don't want to put the "profess" in professor. I'd prefer to keep my pining to my own house hallways, thank you very much.

It also must be said that the fantasy is way more exciting than the real-deal, full - fledged fling. While a professor might have that dashing, wizened look behind clipped silver glasses, or sport some sort of plum-toned eccentric academic accessory from the comfortable distance of a few desks away, chances are when the lenses and the cashmere come off, no one knows what paunchy ball of filmy cataracts will come lunging at your youthful frame. That's not even mentioning whatever godforsaken batch of nutters Prof calls family lurking behind closed doors. For all the poise experienced teachers exude in front of drooling post-adolescents, there's a good chance that what's behind the mask is not nearly as alluring as it may initially seem.

I know that's harsh, but I am on the defensive. I know in my heart of hearts I'm just a repressed heterosexual with few options. I've got nothing but undereducated frat boys, scrawny suburban drunks and a few choice woodland druggies a crammed busload away to choose from, so the old leader at the front of my class starts looking way better than he should. Whenever I leave campus, my crush diffuses and the madness lifts.

If anything, my quiet lust should attest to the value of education. Here I am, respecting the genius who leads me on the path to academic greatness. Because of my crush, I participate, I anticipate new assignments and I seek praise more doggedly than I do when I dislike a professor. If my mind wanders to the gutter from time to time, so be it. I'm learning here.

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