Some background about my class.

My teacher is both boring and dickish. I try so hard to have a positive attitude about this class. It's the only one in my whole program that is actually material that is new to me. I've been looking forward to it since it started. Then I got this wretched teacher.

It's not just me. Nobody knows what's going on, and when we ask him to clarify he'll make some comment about how we're grad students and he shouldn't have to hold our hands through this stuff. Mind you again, this is the whole class that is confused.

For the first time tonight, I noticed something. It had been a bit breezy outside. He came in, and there was a gap in his hair. Upon looking further, it was actually a quite well disguised comb-over, blown loose by the wind.

Now, granted, I have hair issues. I don't know where they come from, perhaps the hours of fun I use to have pretending to check my make-up in the reflection on my father's forehead (before he got the barbie doll plugs). Perhaps from years of reassuring Pete that I'd love him just as much when he goes bald (which started several years ago) and then realizing after we split up that I didn't have to be married to a bald guy. Maybe it's just the idea of people my age, or worse younger, getting old. Point is, hair was already an issue.

But a comb-over is a separate issue all together. It's dishonest. It's trying to (sorry, I have to) pull one over on people. It's being the ultimate poser. I have great difficulty respecting somebody with a comb-over.

But this brings up two weeks ago when I was called a poser.

I wear Rocket Dogs. For those of you unfamiliar, those are these very comfortable flip flops that happen to be elevated about three and a half inches. They come in every color imaginable, with a variety of top toe pieces (usually either woven nylon or terry cloth). But they put me eye to eye with the majority of adult women, and make me taller than my kids. When I wear flare-legged pants, the combination makes my legs look long and relatively slender.

These shoes bother Ken to no end. He says I'm trying to be something I'm not. I explain that body language accounts for most of our communication, and when people are looking down at you it sends a message (it's probably noteworthy here that Ken is about 6'6"). Which is only partially the reason. Fact is the shoes are cute, they show off my pedicure (my one indulgence), and they are uber-comfortable. I can be on my feet all day in them and not feel tired. But at any rate, he called me a poser.

Will somebody please assure me that these are two entirely different things?

-CRbE

ps. In case I don't update again this week (and let's face it- that's likely), Shana Tova.