Calves like Yang

I cannot run anymore because of a knee injury. I have exercises to strengthen the lateral muscles in my knee, and have been biking and going to a gym to try to keep in shape. One of my favourite exercises is calf raises– you just raise yourself up on your tiptoes and then drop back onto flat feet. Do this 100 times, and it kills your calves.

But now my calves get stuck in my skinny jeans. I felt them stuck there the other day when lecturing. Before you go into a lecture, you always check that you fly is done up and that your shirt is long enough that you don't show belly when you write up high. But I didn't know that you have to check your pants for calf room.

I'm probably being paranoid. Probably the students didn't notice. But students do notice these things. I remember Professor Yang, one of the Analysis Profs at Emory, for his calves. Professor Yang was an awesome teacher, his presentations were always super precise and super clear. But more than that I remember him for his huge calves. Emory is in Atlanta, and it is hot. Many professors would wear shorts in the summer, and nobody wore them better that Professor Yang.

He was a short guy, and was always up on tiptoes writing on the board. I figured that was whence came the massive calves. Mathias, or was it John, claimed that all Chinese people have massive calves, but this is clearly not true. Racists.

"Let us never attribute to race what is more easily explained by stature." admonished Brian, always trying to come off as the the voice of reason, but well known for his shortist prejudices.

"Maybe analysts just have big calves." offered Mike, uncomfortable with any type of classism, but not understanding that this pervasive prejudice against analysts is one of the more harmful forms of academic classism.

"What about Professor Schmid? His calves aren't anything to speak of." I said.

"Nor is his rigour." whispered one of my classmates, though I will not reveal which one.

"And he is tall," added Brian, too admiringly for anyone to be comfortable with it. He wasn't short, but he certainly wasn't tall.

"And he is German," said Heather, deliberately moving on from Brian's awkward comments.

"Yeah," added Mathias, or John, whichever of them was more racist, "He's not even a little bit Chinese."

"What about you Mike? You have big calves, and you are a short graph guy," pushed Brian.

"I do like analysis though!" replied Mike, always one to be different about his mathematical interests.

"Nobody likes analysis." That was probably Brian.

"Your all being facetious!" I yelled, my ire up. "Very clearly the fact that Professor Yang is short and likes to write high up on the blackboard is the only germane fact here. And every body likes analysis, Brian! Am I going to have to call Sarah again?"

"What is German about– "

"Professor, aren't we having class today?" asks a student at my door. Dammit. I've been day dreaming about Yang's calves again. Day dreaming that on that fateful day I had the strength of character to stand up for a mathematician's right to develop whatever muscle they chose to develop without fear of belittling reprisal.

"Oh, shit, sorry. I'll be right there."

I check that my fly is up, roll my pant legs up over my bulging calves, grab my notes, and run off to class.