Ryan Miller Day

This morning on the way to school my odometer hit 77700. Lucky 7s. Like I'd just won some big jackpot, like my dashboard was going to open up and spill coins into my lap. Then the radio played "Shook Me All Night Long," which is, of course, one of the best songs in the history of songs. I was already in an unparalleled mood, but these things made me feel even better. I felt like maybe karma was watching over me, ebbing, bubbling, getting ready to shower me in a wash of you so deserve this goodness.

I mean, sure I had to go to school and deal with a student who'd plagiarized his paper, and sure I had to listen to a student say, "Wait a second. There was a paper due two weeks ago? Huh?", and sure I had say to my students, "You didn't notice that Margaret Atwood repeated the word egg at least fifty times in a span of three pages? You didn't think that might be important?", and sure I had to watch them blink at me with those big doe-eyes students adopt in moments when they want to come off as sweet and simple and not entirely capable of doing a close reading of the text.

None of this bothered me. None of this bothered me because today was Stalk Ryan Miller Day. And I don't mean stalk in the creepy/scary way--you know, when people get all crazy and yell I want to have your babies, Ryan! or wait outside so they can write down his license plate number or follow him home to play mix tapes of songs they think he'll really love. No. My version of stalking involved spending too much time picking out an outfit and earrings on the off chance he might look at me or in my general direction after I'd staked my claim in the bar where he was taping an interview for a local show that helps us get to know our Sabres in a more intimate way.

I got there an hour and a half early, stood in line, was eventually joined by my girls, and we got in, we got a seat, a really decent seat. I was at his back, but anyone who wanted to eat and watch the show had to be at his back. Of course, I was glad I'd done most of my eating prior to his arrival in the restaurant because when people started screaming and when Amy, who moments before said, "I don't think I'm going to get that excited... it's not like he's Justin Timberlake...", let out a squeal that could shatter glass, my stomach flopped over on itself and forgot all about food. There he was--so tall! so skinny! skinnier than I'd imagined!--and I was thinking look at me look at me look at me because I thought maybe if he glanced at me I could give him a real soulful look, a look that told him everything he needed to know about me: that I'm not insane, that I'm not a groupie (well, at least not the type that shows up for this taping wearing a corset, the shortest skirt ever, and spike heels that could easily be used as devices of death and doom), that I'm smart and introspective and not all that unfortunate looking and sometimes funny in a hopeless oh she tries sort of way.

Ryan Miller never looked at me. Of course, how could he? I was sitting behind him, thinking about his hair and his skinny body and the jacket he was wearing. I was sitting behind him and being jealous of all the little kids who got to line up for a Q&A session. I was sitting behind him and listening to Amy say that if she had her way, she'd march right up there, waggle her eyebrows, and ask him How do you like it, Ryan? Huh? How do you like it? (Later, after we'd watched The Black Donnellys and I'd lathered myself into the usual semi-hysterical I love Jonathan Tucker state of mind, Amy went back to the glories of Ryan Miller. I bet it would be good, she said, sagely. I bet he has great legs. And thighs. Big thighs. Think of the thighs. Oh, and I did.)

Really, it was a great way to start the week. I got to sit with my girlfriends and shriek and giggle (especially when a little girl asked Ryan Miller what type of shampoo he used) and eat a pan of garlic bread and think oh wouldn't it be nice, wouldn't it be nice, oh dear God, wouldn't it be nice?