Presidents' Day

It's not President's Day, it's Presidents' Day. We've had more than one, so mind your apostrophe!

In honor of the holiday, I'd like to name my favorite president: auraLay anderaSkay ombleyTray.

No, she's never been the commander-in-chief of the United States, but she is the President of my undergrad college. (The president of my grad college? Klitgaard. Pronounced Clit Guard. I think that's what female athletes use to protect their junk, kind of like a cup for women.) Also, I put auraLay's name in Pig Latin because I just know she googles her name on a daily basis.

Back in the day, we called her Baberaham Lincoln because she was hot. Maybe not supermodel hot, but as far as college presidents - who tend to be fat, wrinkly, old white men - go, auraLay was indeed a babe. Just look at the picture of her with fellow babe Robert Redford. (They totes boned.)

About a month into school, my friend circle invented a game that mandated you having to hit on the president each time you interacted with her. When you go to a private liberal arts school with less than 1,000 students that prides itself on being accessible at all levels, these encounters are more frequent than you might think. If you failed to adequately hit on her, you had to take a shot of alcohol. In retrospect, the punishment was pretty stupid - what college student minds taking shots? Still, it was the thrill of the challenge.

Since no one wanted to be straight up pervvy, our pick-up lines had to be carefully crafted so that they would have an element of "Is he hitting on me?" while still maintaining plausible deniability. Because she gave lectures in Connecticut frequently, I once told her to make sure she told me the next time she was in my home state. Another time I complimented her brief introduction of a guest speaker as if it were some speech of Gettysburg Address-importance. Most people participating in the game would compliment her newest pantsuit or invite her to some club meeting in some over-the-top manner.

One time I was in the art gallery when I noticed the President walking outside in the garden, talking to someone significant like a donor or trustee. Feeling obliged to the play the game, I decided to put my face against the window and exaggeratedly wink and make kissy faces in her direction. Even if she didn't notice (which I was hoping for), at least I could say I tried.

Thankfully, the President never looked at the window. Unfortunately, a nearby custodian did. He was weeding the garden and clearly noticed me before I noticed him given his prolonged, disturbed expression. Once we made eye contact, he made another face at me as if to indicate I was some sort of gross, idiotic perv.

For the record, I am only two of those things. But at least I didn't have to take a shot!