Ride vs. Lift

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After school today, there is a dodgeball tournament in the gym. Faculty versus students. Heck yes. Fortunately for the students, I can't play because I didn't know about it in advance, so I didn't bring my "game." (Translation: I can't play sports. I'm the most non-athletic person who ever lived.) So I am an observer.

Boring.

When the tournament ends, and the faculty has won, two young teachers invite me to join them at the pub down the road. Of course, I'm all about it! So Jodi, Deanna, and I sit at a table and talk over a couple of beers and a big plate of nachos. They're both about my age, and they inform me that they meet at this pub almost every Friday after work.

Jodi is British and teaches art, which I think fits with her short blond hair and spicy personality. It's her second year teaching. Deanna is from upstate New York, with big eyes, a big smile, and big mess of dark, curly hair. She teaches PE and coaches the girls' football team. (Soccer, folks.) It's also her second year. Needless to say, they understand my pain. And, they assure me, that it DOES get easier. Deanna said that this year is like a night-and-day difference from last year.

We talk into the evening.

Finally, our glasses are empty, and we've practically licked the nacho bowl clean. So I ask Jodi if I can have a ride to Leagrave Station. She looks at Deanna and busts out laughing.

"What?" I ask, smiling because I think I'm about to hear a joke or something.

"Ride," Jodi says. "You really should ask for a lift. Ride means something different here."

"What does it mean?"

"Sex."

"Oh my god." I think back to two days before, after our science department meeting when I asked if anyone could give me a ride to Leagrave Station. I remember how they'd stared at me for a couple of seconds before someone reached for his car keys and said he was heading that way.

The realization now hits me that I'd asked a group of married Muslim men for sex.

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