This was the week…

Sometimes I watch films where one of the characters is insane, like A Beautiful Mind, the Silver Linings Playbook or Silence of the Lambs, and I wonder if I’m as weird as the mad characters in them. I like to think I’m not. I like to think that I’m more kooky than weird, that I’m like Zooey Deschanel in every film she’s in or like Bridget Jones or like Jim Carrey, back when he was funny. Or maybe I’m actually normal and boring and grey like Colin Firth or Keira Knightley. Who knows?

I definitely can be normal and adult. This blog tends to reflect my inadequacies, my insecurities, my flaws and my many, many inappropriacies. But I can do competent too. I’m proud of my teaching and my teacher training, and I think I’m damn good at it. I am very *shudder* professional at it. And I have worked hard to rise through the EFL profession. Basically, I’m a proper grown-up. 


And yet, and yet…


I’m not really a proper adult. Or a proper competent human being. Which I think this week proves. 


This is the week when I went drinking with nineteen and twenty-year-olds at lunchtime on a weekday. And I was the one who suggested the drinks. Because I am entirely inappropriate.


These drinks followed a meeting where my only real contribution was a ridiculous comment about the recycling of human hair. Everyone around me (all at least ten years older than me, or ten years younger than me) was being very serious. And I was an eejit. 


This was also the week when my supervisor saw fit to write me an email that began with the words “I could sound like a mother and begin ‘how many times have I……”.


And this is the week where I’m spending Friday evening writing a blogpost although I have a mile-long funding application to write because my scholarship stops in August.


This was the week when I didn’t tell my mother that I’m spending a fourth year on my PhD, or that I’m going to Russia this summer, even though the perfect opportunity arose in a phone call. 


This was the week where a first year, whose name I don’t even know, said to me “I love your blog” or possibly “I love your block” and then left. I’m choosing to believe he really likes the block where I live and that hordes of first years aren’t reading the details of my life. Fingers crossed. 


This was the week when I sent Zayn from One Direction a series of six tweets asking for advice on my love life. Seriously. And I felt better after I did. Because I’m the most hopeless fangirl going. 


And this was the week when I wrote a message to one second year undergrad, saying “He got back to me. My sex is now scheduled for 2:00 on Sunday. Yippee!” And this second year isn’t even one of “my Boys”. He’s a new friend, and really doesn’t deserve the torrent of Connor I’ve directed at him. 


Incidentally, the Man from the Internet has rearranged our hook-up for Sunday. And I’m in the terrors. Because I’m not a normal grown-up person who does things like this. I haven’t “done the deed” since December 2007, and it’s not as if my life was a non-stop orgy until that time. For most of the last five and a bit years, sex hasn’t been real for me. It’s been like famines or cholera or Olympic medals – something that could theoretically happen to me, but really only happened to other people. And now it seems like it’ll happen to me. And I’m excited and I want to vomit and I want to go and hide. But I probably won’t. 


Because I am an adult. 


And I never used to write about sex here. Until I came out to my parents last year, I didn’t mention sex at all on the blog. But now it feels like I should re-name it “Project Connor XXX” and put up an adult content warning on the front page of the site. 


I’m sure I’ll get this Sunday’s little adventure out of the way and get back to writing about my battles against biscuits and other appropriate things. 


Probably.

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