Page 2 of Learn Your Limits
Emiliano
No amount of wine could have made me stay at the university staff ice-breaker event held earlier tonight.
The term in itself has always rubbed me the wrong way, and needless to say, the act of having to introduce myself to dozens of people who I might only run into once in the entire academic year is incredibly grating.
A decade. At the start of this quickly approaching school year, I will have been a professor at Oakhart University for ten years. I won’t lie and say the realization doesn’t bring up certain concerns.
In my early twenties, the goal was to become a grad student and show my parents their sacrifices in life were not taken for granted. In my mid twenties, the goal became to land a professor role teaching what I loved. Now, having turned thirty-seven last week, I’m afraid to say I can’t see my future as clearly as I once did.
There is nothing wrong with my job. I love it. Cognitive psychology—teaching and studying the way people think—is incredibly fascinating to me. If I ever found myself dislikingthe subject or resenting my position, I would simply not teach it anymore. How unfair would it be for a student to have a professor that lacks the passion for their subject?
So, what is this concern coursing through me? Is it a question of companionship? Or lack thereof?
While I’m not the hermit many of my colleagues have deemed me to be, I am not one for forced socialization. I believe it defeats the purpose. Nor am I one to let any of these people in too easily. I’ve got my family, friends, and close-knit work relationships to keep me busy. Nothing else is needed.
These thoughts run through my mind as I settle into the couch in my study with a glass of merlot I didn’t have to parade around like a monkey for, and one of the latest dating apps opened on my phone.
The irony of me saying “nothing else is needed,” yet here I am scrolling through my phone for a potential connection, is not lost on me.
It does not mean I need to address it.
I would rather address the wine I’m absentmindedly swirling in my hand as I swipe through users on the app. This is only the second week or so I have actively been on it, much to the insistence of one of my best friends.You’re a lonely old man, Milo!Teresa, my stubborn best friend, droned on during our lunch date before she snatched my phone and downloaded the app right onto it.
I hate to admit it, but she was right.
There’s a certain thrill that comes with meeting a new person and already knowing they’re interested in you given the nature of the dating app. It’s one of the only ones I’ve actually cared to stay on. It welcomes men who identify as queer under a rather large umbrella.
I’ve been openly bisexual since my late teenage years. While it was a bit tumultuous for my parents, a highly traditionalimmigrant couple from Guatemala, to accept, they eventually did, and with their support, I haven’t had a day where I’ve felt the need to hide who I am. A cherished experience, as I know it is not the case for many others within the community.
A few people have caught my attention in the small amount of time I’ve given myself to look through profiles. No one so much so that I have felt the compulsion to reach out to them. I’m taking this as a learning curve and not rushing into anything.
Suddenly, thedingof a new notification fills the space.
CallMeCal:Hi. I have no idea what I’m doing or what the right thing to say even is, but... I think you’re really handsome. I’d love to chat, if you’re up for it.
The sincerity felt through his message catches my attention immediately. A shy man, though not too shy to send the first message and say exactly what he feels.
I sit up from my previously lounging position and set my glass of wine onto a coaster on the side table. Tapping on his picture, I see he made his profile recently, is in his early twenties, and only shares a few inconsequential details about himself.
It has me wondering if he truly is shy or if he craves anonymity for another reason.
Either way, I’m intrigued. The small buzzing feeling traveling through my hands as I stare at his profile picture has nothing to do with the sips of wine I’ve consumed.
A sweater in the most brilliant dark green complements the slivers of skin I’m able to see. The phone he is holding hides his face well, and I find myself questioning why he would have to hide this way. I look closer still and see wisps of auburn hair barely peeking around his phone.
I won’t lie and say I’m not dying of curiosity to see him fully.
Swiping back to our chat, I begin to type out a message, hoping it will land with the same allure his message had on me.
JustMilo:Hola, Cal. I’d say leading with a compliment is good practice. Makes an old man like me feel special. Take this as the start of our chat and, I hope, the start of much more.
Chapter three
Reid
Time spent waiting to see if someone is going to respond to a message is excruciating. Especially when that someone just so happens to be a handsome older man whose pictures have me wanting to curl up on the couch beside him. I only lasted a few minutes before I forced myself to get up and take a shower. I had to do something to keep from obsessively checking my phone every three seconds.
Is this how it feels to be on the other side? The thought almost has me wanting to apologize to every girl I’ve ever ghosted or left onreadfor longer than necessary just because I could.
