Pretty Fly For A White Guy

My students gleefully pointed me to Weird Al's latest, "Canadian Idiot," and I laughed hardest at the line about how we treat curling just like it's a real sport. Reminds me of a joke I heard a long time ago, told to me by an American friend: We'll explain guns to you, if you can explain curling to us.

Being on a rink sans skates? Don't look to me for an explanation, Gentle Reader.

I spent my childhood living a stone's throw from the United States. In high school, we joked about how Smuggling 101 was a course in grade nine. Joked about it being formalized in the curricula, but learned how to do it nonetheless. When we turned 18 we started going over the river to upstate New York to drink, because we could; because the legal age in Ontario was 19. Nowadays, it's the other way around; their students come over to our side.

My point, and I do have one, is that I'm no stranger to this country where I now live. I have visited 27 of the 50 states, and worked in three. I have worked with Americans and for Americans. I have American relatives. I have had sex with Americans. I just never lived here before.

I know they make fun of us for being overly polite. They don't know we make fun of them for being rude, but we do it with love because we know they don't mean to be.

I'd always figured, it's not a bad thing to be polite. Until yesterday, I never thought that politeness could be construed as rude, or that a rude comment tossed over a shoulder might be the polite thing to do.

One day last year I'd been in the classroom at the university where I used to teach, and I noticed the students snickering once or twice during the lesson. This isn't unusual; I try to be funny so as to keep their attention, but I hadn't said anything to provoke that laughter.

At least, that's what I thought. After class I went to the faculty lounge for coffee. There was only one other person in there, a woman, one of the department assistants, and yet she discreetly closed the door before whispering to me,

"Your fly's undone."

I burst out laughing, and told her the story. "Well, at least that explains why they were laughing at me!"

"Do you mean to say not one of them told you?" she asked.

"Well, no," I replied, "I mean, I wouldn't expect them to raise their hand and say, 'Excuse me, miss, but you're flying low.' Really, I'm thankful they didn't. That would have been embarassing."

When you're a teacher, you have to lower your embarassment threshold.

I've been teaching five years now, which likely explains why yesterday, on the busy sidewalk on San Fernando Street, when a man walked past me, then turned and yelled loud enough so they could hear him across the street, "Hey, miss, you're flying low," I just laughed, zipped up, and kept on walking.

Speaking of flies being down, again today someone found this story of mine by searching for "had to pee so bad." Is this, like, the name of a band, or something? In the next story, Postmodern Sass has lost her flyness, but found her inner Mary Tyler Moore.