Oh, Benjamin, I feel what you feel.
Both because a sultry temptress named Mrs. Robinson seduces me into her every morning (hey, baby) and because of the second guessing my readings of clear borderline-to-actually inappropriate social cues.
(Is this the right time to bring up that my inability to not get hopeless flustered, awkward, and uncomfortable when a dude compliments me — because of this how-should-i-read-that-ugh-WHAT-DO-YOU-WANT ambiguity — has ONCE AGAIN got me in the soup? “Nice shirt, what a great color!” says older dude faculty member. “UM THANK YOU I GUESS IT IS A NICE COLOR? IT’S MY CURRENT FAVORITE COLOR BECAUSE BRIGHT COLORS LOOK GOOD WITH MY. HAIR. COLOR?” Suddenly it’s a five minute chat about my hair, and now everytime we interact it is about my clothing choices? “Orange and black” he observes when he comes in the library. “The colors of Halloween,” I do not observe back, “AND YOU — ON THE — NAUGHTY LIST!”)
(You’d have thought I’d learn my lesson after that time in college my ex was all, “My word, Emma, but you look fetching in that gown!” and I was all, “When I’m tired I like to dress up in bright colors in the hopes it will give me energy” — because apparently my default ramble is to TALK ABOUT PRETTY COLORS, SOMEONE HELP ME PLEASE — and he was all, “Then today you must be a ROCKET” and I wanted to die in the cafeteria.)