(Not waiting for one — even though I like the song.)
I have a problem with authority.
I have problems with a lot of things (it’s all part of my… let’s just call it ‘charm’) but authority is definitely one of them. I have issues with pretty much every type of authority figure that exists (Ms. Rose can confirm that. Sir Rose can confirm that. Heck, anyone can confirm that.) but I have a special place in my…. um… (not heart, but you know what I mean) for academic authority figures. Teachers. Administrators. Teachers who administrate. I remember being a grad student and hanging up the phone on the Dean of Graduate Studies when he sort of phoned me but didn’t. (He didn’t phone me — some subordinate did. The phone rang, I said hello and the voice said “Mr. Glace? Please hold for Dean M.” I counted to ten, he still wasn’t there so I hung up. He called back. I knew he would. Or the flunky would. Someone. I can be such a jerk sometimes.)
And that brings me to The Man.
The Man has been mentioned before. In general terms, The Man is an anthropomorphic personification of authority. In the current context however, The Man is a talented young lady who used to live around the corner from me but couldn’t bear the proximity (I almost said ‘propinquity’ but that has several inappropriate connotations.) and moved. She stopped fleeing when she was two hundred kilometers away, clearly assuming that was far enough. (I’m just that annoying.) She’s a university professor, which almost makes her an authority figure. She’s also occasionally a department head which definitely makes her one — which is why I call her The Man (Do it now, kids — stick it to the man!). She hates that. So, of course, there’s not a chance in hell that I’ll stop.
Last Saturday — like most Saturdays; I’m a slave to routine — we (Ms. Rose and I) went to the Insomniac Capriform Cafe for breakfast. Last week was different because The Man and her family came too — Mr. The Man (mentioned under a different name in ‘Painting‘) and their lovely and talented daughter Miss The Man.
The Mans (The Men?) had come because they had proposed a post-breakfast trip to the nearby skating rink. (The one mentioned in ‘Skating‘.) I was interested to see if my ‘skating clothing’ theory (if you missed it, I observed that all female-type persons younger than some critical age wore pink, purple or pink and purple when visiting the rink) would hold on a second day.
It did. Heck, if anything, it seemed to hold more: there seemed to be more women wearing ‘skating colours.’ There was a toddler playing with her grandfather, a retired MPP (at first I thought they were dancing). She had pink pants and a purple hat. There was a slightly older young lady in snow pants (not pink) and a painfully pink helmet. There was a twentysomething woman (significantly older than the previous ‘cutoff’ age) in bright yellow skates (they make yellow skates?) and a neon pink sweater. Everywhere I looked there were ladies in pink and/or purple. I felt absurdly pleased with my theory.
Until I noticed an anomaly. It didn’t ruin my theory, exactly, but it certainly weakened it. Because there, wearing no pink or purple WHATSOEVER, was Miss The Man.
Like I said, I have a problem with authority.