So I danced again with Max last night.This really is like being back in high school. He likes me, he likes me not, he likes me, he likes me not. And nothing ever comes of it. I suppose it keeps me distracted, which could be considered a good thing. I guess the really big problem is that I have tendency to ascribe meaning, or more accurately greater meaning, to small occurences. I'm constantly giving my friends the advice "Don't think about it so much." Of course, as my father always said, "Advice, the wise man doesn't need it, and the fool doesn't listen." (I was always the unofficial counselor at school. I would listen to people's problems for hours. I would give them advice, which they wouldn't follow. This, of course, landed them back on my doorstep whining to me that they should have lsitened. I would then give them more advice that they would ignore. After a while I made a proclamation, if anyone asked me for advice I was going to tell him or her, no matter what the problem was, the same thing "Kill him." I actually did this for a while and people did learn to stop asking me for advice...No one was killed.)
So I'm getting really vague here, aren't I?
So the basic premise here is that I'm reading to much into Max's behavior, but then since I spent most of grad school examining texts for "symbolic content" it is not surprising that it would spill over into other venues. (I think my favorite coment about symbolic content from grad school came from a ph.d. student while the class was discussing Jane Austen's Emma. She asked the class, "What do you think about the subversive lesbian content?" She was greeted with silence and blank stares. )Max is just flirty because that is what he is, and it has nothing to do with me. And this really depresses me, not so much because I thought we would have a big romance (he seems like more of autumnal fling to me) but it made me feel better to know that someone like him would be attracted to me. (One of my friends insists that he is attracted to me, but considering Max's age etc etc, he is like a dog in a hydrant factory. In other words, put two breast implants on a stick and he would be attracted to it.Of course the stick would instantly get a modeling career, which it would parlay into some movie appearances. After two or three years, the stick would go into rehab, retire, get married, get divorced, make a come back and finally voice its try goal "to direct." Meanwhile I'll still be here teaching the masses, getting grey hair, and talking to my cat.)