An Open Letter to Bill Nye (The Science Guy)

Dear Bill,

I have a bit of a confession.

In the midst of some raucous conversation during a recent visit with friends, I mentioned to their children that I had graduated from the same university you attended ("Just like Bill Nye!") At first I tried "Christopher Reeve" but they didn't know who he was (and besides, Christopher, um, left prematurely to pursue a career in more extreme applications of science.) YOU, they knew. And I'm all about dropping names, when 11-year-olds are involved.

I meant nothing by it, except to possibly seem cool and groovy, after having used the actual terms "cool" and "groovy", thereby completely demolishing any chance I had of seeming like a "Phat Dawg" or whatever they're calling it these days.

After leaving, there evolved a slight misunderstanding about my statement(s). I don't know the exact origin of the disconnect, but I'm sure it had something to do with the first law of thermodynamics: we ate Mexican, all the extra energy had to go somewhere.

In any event, they seemed to believe I actually meant, "I dated Bill Nye." Which isn't true, to the best of my knowledge (although I'll admit, Zinck's Pub wasn't very well-lit…) And, anyhow, as stories sometimes get more elaborate with each telling, now they inform me that we almost got married!

Almost married! E-gads. This extrapolation, I assure you, caused me some lack of sleep. I'm all about truth and logic and scientific method, after all. Especially when children or pasta is involved. It was quite a leap, this marriage rumor (but I suppose preadolescent children are known to make marital assumptions based on much less. Simple proximity, for example; even above compatible genus/species.)

Anyway, compatible or not, I'm not sure whether it was you or I who broke the engagement - they never let me in on that part. If it was I, then I suppose an apology is in order. It stands to reason that it was the myopia of youth clouding my judgment, and you're really a very nice person, and I'm sure I didn't suspect the profound ramifications it might have on your subsequent ability to form meaningful relationships, etc. etc. (Read: it wasn't you, it was me.)

Or maybe I was just unnerved by all the vials and test tubes and Bunsen burners lying around your apartment, or your ill-conceived use of the Periodic Table of the Elements ("liberated" from the Chem 201 auditorium) as a window treatment. (Read: it wasn't me, it was you.)

I suppose we should be glad that they didn't just flat out assume that we actually HAD been married -if only briefly, and stormily, and to the vexation of our ultra-proper parents who recognized instantly the inflammable nature of such hasty chemical combinations. (I will admit, it might explain the volumetric lab markings on some of my finer stemware. Maybe just a birthday present?)

According to the 11-year-old experts, actual exchange of mushy vows seemed just a tad farfetched and therefore eye-rolling was entirely in order.

"After all, Bill is on TV, and you. Are not!" (?!) They offered with such conviction and authority, that logic was apparently unnecessary.

Can you can appreciate the current against which I'm rowing here?

But to the point - if some really enthusiastic kids start asking you about "Susie" from your college days, I didn't want you to be blind-sided.

Just act really hurt and sorrowful, and refuse to talk about it. You don't have to pour on the tears if you don't want to, but it might be a nice touch.

Thanks - you're a peach.

Coming clean,
Susan Kawa