If only I had a dime for every time (Hey! That rhymed!) someone made a sexy-librarian reference or joke towards me, I’d, well, I’d have enough money to eat my Frosted Flakes for dinner every night with the fancy silverware. When I accepted a life-long dream job with the library almost a year ago, my besties reminded me, half teasingly, half with encouragement, that it’s a position that still fulfills a certain classical fantasy.
My black cat-eye glasses and extensive
cardigan literary tattoo collection probably doesn’t do the best job of dispelling the notion that I’m one Def Leppard guitar rift away from a tryst in the stacks, and damned if I can’t toss my hair and shush patrons with the best of them. *Correction: I don’t so much hair toss but rather blow my silly bangs out of my face and I am the farthest from a shusher. But don’t tell anyone! I have street cred to uphold. In my dream sequences most likely propelled by eating ice cream right before bed, a cutie walks up to the desk, my eyes meeting his over the spine of a novel. I’d be so taken aback by his ridiculously hot knowledge of all things Harry Potter that I would climb onto a Beauty and the Beast-esque ladder and sail towards destiny. Pour some sugar on me. But not really because holy stickiness, Batman.
Realistically though, the job is a little less romantic than that. I spend more time wiping down inexplicably sticky copies of text books that I do finding kindred spirits among the stacks, and I’m unlikely to go ga-ga over over patrons who need help Googling the answer to the question “Why is a hamburger called a hamburger? It’s, like, sooooo not ham.” Actual thing I had to do the other day. I soooo wish I was joking.
But in the down-time, when you’re resting on your elbows over the counter waiting for the next patron to approach, you do entertain those silly yet glossy possibilities. Just a little, teeny weeny, ittie, bittie bit. I mean, Chris Evans hasn’t walked into my library loaded down with books and angst…yet…but it could happen, right?
Potential gentleman callers should know, though, that we badass single librarians have our own set of great expectations (see what I did, there?) For instance: size absolutely matters. If I’m looking, I’m looking for a man’s man with an enormous…lexicon. My ideal guy boasts a giant library (or at the very least entertains the idea of reading to humor a girl) and he’s got enough literary experience that he doesn’t need directions once he gets in my stacks.
Library stacks, people. Get your dirty minds out of the gutter (but game respect game.)
Potential gentleman called needs to understand that yes, when I walk into a bookstore, I will most likely not be walking out without at least
4 5 10 books in tow. And that yes, I will point out all the differences in the film version of the book that we go see on date night, stewing over the parts they left out and changed. And that yes, when I’m in the throws of a great page-turner, that text/snap chat/Facebook message will go left unanswered until said great page-turner is done.
That’s just the way I jelly roll, ya dig?
“Single librarian” may be the thing to be. But pruient (thank you, word of the day calendar for that one) patrons, know this: if you don’t come to our desks with the readerly goods (and possibly cookies because YUM!) to back up those winks, your card probably isn’t getting stamped.
Your library cards, people. Gutter!