Yesterday I made desultory efforts to finish shopping for a celebration that has been cancelled. Even without a big dinner to prepare there are tasks that need to be addressed; all the shops will close for the duration of the holiday and it took several bike rides to haul in provisions.
I had just settled in for a long and gloomy night listening to sad love songs when Rachel (the historian) texted. We met at the Maypole and she indignantly said that I quoted her out of context, in a way that did not reflect her extensive understanding of identity politics and queer theory.
She pointed out that the larger conversation was about how people read various social cues.
True – in the earlier post I forgot to add that the crowd demanded to see my tattoo and then took pictures of my arm.
Cambridge is not my natural habitat.
Then Rachel asserted that I am a better social anthropologist than most of the trained practitioners around here. To prove the point, she turned to Kaushik and asked him to describe my identity based on available information.
I rolled my eyes and hurriedly started to tell tour stories.
Jean showed up and there was much scathing hilarity as he said things like Monogamy to her means one penis in each orifice.
Though I won’t say which brilliant academic he was talking about.
Rachel grabbed my phone to do some sleuthing but she always does that so I had cleverly erased all of the messages before setting out for the pub, even though my inbox is pure and innocent. Since she couldn’t find any trouble she decided to create it, sending racy messages to faraway people.
It is good to have friends.