Nobody Looks Good in Leather Pants (or bowties), Dear Professor Book #1

Part 1

What do I have to lose?

All I needed to do was email the guy, set up the date, pray he was even a fifth as amazing as Emily said he was, and show up. That's all.

I am such a Scaredy McFrightenedton . . .

Staring at the blinking cursor on my screen, I eyed the "x" in the upper right hand corner. I could just close the screen, go to the start menu, select shut down, and watch my computer screen fade to black.

One year. Twelve months. Just a week shy of three hundred sixty-five days.

Somewhere in the rebellious recesses of my mind, an annoying little voice that sounded suspiciously like mine reminded me that twelve months had passed since my last date. Since my boyfriend had broken up with me via text message, completely out of the blue, on Valentine's Day.

On the scale of awful, it rated pretty high. This was because the text he'd sent was a picture of him kissing another girl.

In other words, he was a douche.

Sure, I had sworn off dating for the remainder of my life. Sure, I had been resigned to living my existence as a neurotic spinster. Maybe I would get a cat, or two, or four, or seven—might as well make it a baker's dozen.

But now, after almost twelve months and Valentine's Day looming, I was ready to throw my hat in the ring again. Get my groove on. Watch Netflix and chill.

And yet, still. I was not so sure.

What do you have to lose?

The thought troubled me. Pursing my lips as I contemplated loss, I realized—sans the possibility he was a serial killer—all I had to lose was time. Time I would most likely otherwise spend watching Room with a View and rewinding the scene on the hill over and over and over and over.

The one where Julian Sands grabs Helena Bonham Carter with his big, masculine hands, holding her around the waist and sliding his—I imagined—cool hand over her cheek, then pulling her to him with expectation. And as their lips meet for the first time, amidst the sea of golden barley, the kiss explodes with passion.

Screw fear of the unknown! Carpe Diem! Seize the fucking day!

I nodded, then began typing.

Hi Lucas,

You don't know me . . . and I don't know how to do this. But rest assured, the most terrible and terrifying thing has already been written (the most terrible thing being the word "hi", because—in this circumstance—it is also the bravest).

Now that my awkward reference to Anna Karenina has been made, let me start again:

Hi Lucas,

You don't know me. Our mutual friend (Emily Von) gave me your email address. Emily has told me many times that she thinks we would be perfect for each other, that it'll be "love at first sight."

Even though I'm a romantic, I don't believe in love at first sight; the concept strikes me as frivolous and convenient. As Tolstoy said, "It is amazing how complete is the delusion that beauty is goodness."

But I digress.

If you're interested in meeting up, please come to Jake Peterson's microbrewery on Fifth and Pine this Saturday at 6 p.m. (Valentine's Day). I'll be the one in leather pants.

Looking forward to it, Anna I. Harris

PS Don't ask what the "I" stands for because I won't tell you.