This is one of the weeks I regret giving up what anonymity I had. If I was still faceless, I’d be writing about the first week of teaching and how cool I think this group of students is, or the strangeness of living vicariously through my colleagues who are on the market this year, or the vagaries of one of my consulting gigs. I’d write about the academic small-world syndrome that has me taking a class in another department with a professor who chaired the dissertations of the professors who chaired the dissertations of the professors who chaired both Mr. Husband’s and my theses.

That’s what I’d be writing about. But I’m not.