“Sabbatical?” my neighbor asked with a smirk, “is that just another one of your fancy words for lazy?”

Alright – jeez. While you could technically say that a sabbatical is a euphemism for hiatus, which is a loose word for unemployed, contrary to my neighbor's rather glib accusation I have not spent the past three months lounging around in my hammock draining Bass Ales. While that might do wonders for my chi, it would hardly benefit my employment or marriage status.

I used the term sabbatical because it reminds me of one of my favorite professors in college, who spent his sabbatical researching Colorado microbreweries along with the different methods of getting a hot little grad student into the sack.
When he returned from his break, he seemed refreshed and vigorous, albeit a little distracted, due to his new domestic situation with his new “girlfriend” who was 30 years his junior. This became especially evident when we went on extended field trips and the normally taciturn, nubile grad student (forbidden fruit) tagged along.

Their daily disputes created an aura of awkwardness for all. The grad student would sit in the back of the passenger van, arms folded and pouty, while the professor would sit up front and daydream about lakes of vodka and tonic, with lime trees dotting the shores.

All of this culminated into a huge blow-out on one of our field trips to Colorado, where we ended up at one of the professor’s favorite microbreweries for dinner.
Upon arriving, he was greeted with such enthusiasm from one of the local bar maids that it became quite apparent the two of them had engage in some horizontal aerobics together.

This did not bode well for the concubine grad student, who had already figured her and the professor for a honeymoon in Bora Bora, during his next sabbatical.
Like a hotshot hostage negotiator, the bar maid attempted to play down the professor’s previous visits to the brewery (and presumably, her apartment after closing time). Words were volleyed, to no avail.

It didn’t take long until the grad student exploded with rage, chucking her pint of beer at the professor. She missed, and all 16 ounces ended up splattering the table, covering half of us in a smooth, hoppy, amber ale. She had only two words for the professor, which she barked above the din of the bar so everyone could enjoy her fine command of the English language.

Then she stomped out, and the professor followed shortly thereafter, without a word to the field trippers. And that was it – she was not seen again on that trip – but it was rumored she grabbed a cab to the nearest bus terminal and went home. That was, until the college holiday break – when I rode with her and thirty other un-showered people on a very pungent Greyhound bus to Phoenix.

Spotting her in the back, where I like to ride when it comes to skanky transportation, I nodded and said hey. She ignored me, pretending to have no idea who I was. Which made sense, when you consider her humiliation and embarrassment due to the incident of deceit in Colorado.

Push a hundred miles in the bus, though, and you start to think about things you wouldn’t normally fathom. It's kind of like the end of the Eighth Grade Great Harvest Dance, and you are standing at the wall with all the other rejected guys who are dance-less for the night – and you’re thinking, two dances left – I have to ask [insert your crush's name here] to dance – lest I go home completely consumed with regret.

So, perhaps this little lady would like some company in this stinky bus? While I didn't have the requisite 16-ounce Budweiser in the brown sack that nearly every other bus traveler had, I did have some charm, which I hoped to spin her way. Her slim, folded legs consumed the aisle seat, and her skinny frame extended across to the window, taking up both seats. This meant that I would need to grab a spot across the aisle from her hiking shoe-clad feet, which would require moving the drunken hobo who had stretched out in the row across from her. Judging from the look on his face (anger, sadness, shame, drunkenness), this was not to be had, so I slid into the row in front of her, with the intention of grabbing her attention as a friendly traveler who had connected with her a few months before.

I reached my hand over the seat to gently wake her – and she shrieked like a cattle-prodded shrew. That was all it took for me to dart from there back to my seat. Just like eighth grade, baby. She was freaked out, thinking the bum had touched her – I feigned sleep.

The professor ended up heading the Geography department at a large university on the east coast. The hot little grad student did not join him in this quest, and was later reported to be working at The Great Alaskan Bush Company, although I didn’t verify this.

So, sabbaticals can be refreshing, indeed. Mine wasn’t a lazy adventure (like the professor’s), but I did learn that it’s nice to flex the brain after a little break.
Merry Christmas (or your holiday of choice) and Happy New Year to everyone.