“It’s not that impressive, I swear. It’s more like...a job for people who didn’t want to leave college and didn’t know what else to do.”

“I doubt that’s true,” Lily said. “Or else colleges would be full of a lot of shitty professors.”

“Yeah, well.” I shrugged. Case in point.

“What do you teach?” Jonny asked.

“History.”

“Oh my god, history was my favorite subject in school!” Another woman at the table shouted. “Do you have, like, a specialty? Professors always study real specific shit.”

I shifted in my chair, realizing how long it had been since I’d met anyone new. I wasn’t used to talking this much about myself.

“Well, I teach pretty much whatever they tell me to teach, but...my research focuses mainly on early 20th century America. Immigration in early 20th century America, specifically.”

“Oh yeah,” the woman who loved history nodded her head approvingly. “That’s sexy shit.”

“Is it?” I laughed. “I find it rather upsetting and discriminatory, actually.”

“No, Preeti means the fact that you study it,” Lily filled in. “You do research. That,” she lifted her glass, “is sexy.”

I was pretty sure Preeti and Lily were fucking with me. There was nothing remotely sexy about me, including my research. From my already-meticulously-studied chosen field to my physique, which could best be described as chunky, everything about me screamed mediocre white person. I had been told I had nice eyes, a point which I could concede, but I failed at pretty much everything else: hair product, originality, fashion choices. God, I wished I could make clothes that actually made sense for my body, like Lily. Or even understood how to shop for them.

I lived alone in a small apartment with two cats and more maps than any single person would ever have a tangible use for. I lacked interesting hobbies.

The only vaguely interesting thing about me was a late in life acceptance of Feeling Real Weird About Gender. And even then, interesting wasn’t exactly the right word. I had no idea what the right word was, and had been searching for the last few years to find it. I’d take an even remotely accurate string of words at this point. But when I did find them, I’d buy a new sparkly journal in celebration.

And maybe after writing those close-enough-to-accurate words down in fancy pen on every single page, my brain would finally be able to shut up about it.

Or maybe the journal wouldn’t be sparkly. Maybe it’d be a nice matte gray.

It would depend on the day, really.