Pros and Cons of Dating My English Teacher

Today was the best day of my life. Here, I will recount for you the series of events that made up said day.

Arrived at school around 7:40. Had to wait until 7:45 for “Morning Meeting” to start, but I really didn’t want to talk to anyone, so I pretended to be very busy (with my iPod on, listening to Hidden Vagenda) until EXACTLY 7:45, when I returned to the lunch room and sat at a table by myself. Pretended not to hear people when they asked if I was okay.
Went to Science of the Arts, where I put on my cheery “greet the morning” face and learned that Leonardo da Vinci was a vegetarian, at which point I made a “power to the people” fist, and everyone looked at me funny.
Went to Detective Story, where I lost any remnants of composure I had previously been clinging to, and sat there weeping in my detective costume (woolen fedora and Ray-Ban wayfarers) until they finally excused me. Moved my festival of pessimism to the office of our Dean of Students, who offered me a 5-second apology for the fact that my life is a crock of shit, and then proceeded to distract me with impromptu reviews of books I have no desire to read in the first place. Most of them were about refugees.
Skipped out on lunch room food in favor of drawing a big Sarah Lawrence gryphon on the “Where Will You Be Next Year?” posterboards. My arm hurt for about an hour afterwards, since I had to hold the posterboard up to the window in order to trace the logo… it doesn’t sound like a workout, but trust me, it is.
Went to Chem after lunch. Regained my composure and overwhelming sense of self-importance by answering two questions correctly (a new record) and actually handing in homework. Then the fire alarm went off.
Everybody else was already gone, since I take an inordinately large amount of time to arrange things in my backpack. Walked down the back staircase by myself, relatively calmly, until I noticed that all the maintenance men were running UP the staircase towards me yelling “go! go! go!”
Unusual. So I hurried after them, threw my backpack in the lounge, and didn’t take the extra few minutes to go to my locker and get my coat.
At this point, I might add that my school has the most ludicrous and ineffectual fire drill procedures that I’ve ever heard of: we exit the school “calmly,” and then we line up in pairs by grade on the front lawn. If the school were ever to spontaneously combust — which, at this point, seems wholly realistic — I can assure you that the back of my neck would AT LEAST be singed, if not burned to a legitimate crisp.
Anyways. It was windy and freezing, and there I am in corduroys and a t-shirt. At first it wasn’t so bad, but then it just got colder and windier, and the fire alarm wouldn’t stop going off, and four or five fire trucks came to the school. Everyone was huddling together for warmth, but I really hate being touched (see “Diez Cosas that Piss the Living Shit Out of Me”) so I kept to myself. I was shivery and cold, right on the brink of hypothermia. I could tell the end was near. I had been trying to watch my feet, so as to avoid conversation with basically everyone around me, when I looked up and saw what I assumed to be a vision.
It was not a vision. There it was — my English teacher was standing under a big tree wearing khakis and a windbreaker, and he was eyeing me… not in that sketchy “3 seconds to rape” type way, but he was definitely eyeing me. I hate eye contact, so I looked back down at my feet… but when I looked up, he was about 3 yards in front of me. Walking towards me. Taking off his windbreaker.

And so it came to be that I, your faithful internet blogger, am now known as the girl who wore the English teacher’s windbreaker for 30 minutes on Monday, May 12.
Drink it in.

Now, in my code of conduct, I find that when a male gives a female his jacket or sweatshirt, the gesture does not simply mean “don’t be cold.” That would be far too straightforward. According to my code of conduct, the loan of a jacket or sweatshirt from a male to a female means exactly as follows, nothing more, nothing less:
“We are now dating.”

Clearly, I am ecstatic. However, I find that there are many consequences, both positive and negative, that may come along with dating my AP English teacher. I will list them here, in a list I will call “Pros and Cons of Dating My English Teacher, Who is Probably Sixty, But is Also My Dream Date.” Bon apetit.

Pros and Cons of Dating My English Teacher, Who is Probably Sixty, But is Also My Dream Date.
ISSUE: He is sixty.
Pro: Mature, learned, wise.
Con: Socially unacceptable, close in age to my grandfather, wears orthopedic sneakers.

ISSUE: He is married.
Pro: Sneaking around is exhilarating, affairs are chic, reminds me of film noir.
Con: Heartily immoral.

ISSUE: He is not a vegetarian.
Pro: Manly, high in protein.
Con: Inadvertent transmission of animal by-products, burger-flavored kisses.

ISSUE: He can recite the last paragraph of The Great Gatsby entirely from memory.
Pro: Well-read, good memory (especially considering his age), similar literary tastes.
Con: Tear-jerker; could easily manipulate my emotions at the drop of a hat. Would be sloppy in public places.

ISSUE: Non-smoker.
Pro: Healthy lungs, normally colored fingernails, no lingering stench on clothing or upholstery.
Con: Will inevitably disapprove of my destructive decisions, might tell my advisor, will probably lecture me about being headed for a “toxic, disfiguring ailment.”

ISSUE: Wears a lot of leather.
Pro: Looks fuckin’ badass.
Con: Immorality, squeaky noises when he moves his arms.

I suppose I will weigh out my options.
Blum, blam.