I love love, I love being in love, I don’t care what it does to me. – The Format
I have to admit something: I have a crush. You know, those things you got in high school? The emotional roller coaster when every single time he looks over at you in math class just might mean he is asking you to marry him, with blink-Morse code of course. Or when you spend every lunch period discussing how he styled his hair this week or the way his eyes change color in the sun. Yep, that’s me. Right now. All the time.
Five years ago, when I was still more of a high school student than a freshman in college, I fell head-over-heels for this guy I worked with. I think I loved him before I even knew his name. And in my defense, he paid way more attention to me than you average male coworker/friend should. But it went nowhere, and instead of letting our friendship and my unrequited love fade over time, I ended all contact. Let me assure you, cold turkey was not the way to go. I’ve since gone vegetarian. But I’m still not over him. And for years, I wouldn’t let myself feel anything for anyone.
Until now. You guys: I love having a crush. The sun shines a little brighter, the hill I have to ride up to get to work is a little less steep, and the artificial sweetener in my Earl Gray tea is a little more like sugar. Disgusting, right? It is so great. And he is so great. I like everything about him. And that I like everything about him is one of the things I like about him.
Not everything about having a crush is awesome. There is always that voice in the back of your head, reminding you that, more often than not, it doesn’t work out. That more often than not he ends up dating some yuck-o named Courtney or Monica. It sort of gnaws at you. You begin to second guess everything he’s said. Romantic comedies start to ruin your day, becoming a harsh reminder that your life isn’t a movie. Even Hallmark cards turn your stomach. Or maybe that is all the Ben and Jerry’s?
Until he texts you. This is my favorite part of a crush: the obsession. In its innocent forms, it is the endless conversations with girl friends about him. I’ve been on the receiving end of the crush talk many-a-time, so I know how little my friends care about what music he likes or what things his coworkers said last Wednesday, but still I share the news like its the next Harry Potter. But that is cute, even endearing; besides, who hasn’t been there? It gets a little more lousy when obsession rears its ugly head in other aspects.
My favorite is the tic I develop when he texts me. As soon as I send my response I have to check my phone, make sure it isn’t on vibrate. Then, if I look away for even a fraction of a second, I need to check. When the back light flicks off, the change inspires a new round of checks. And if time elapses between conversations, suddenly it takes an army of friends to console you to explain the slow turn around time. And to verify if it is way too creepy to poke him on Facebook. (Note: it usually is.)
Of course, boys have no idea. They don’t know that a girl can spend days dissecting simple utterances for any deeper meaning. That one word responses can ruin whole days. That comments on Facebook from other girls automatically makes them enemies.
And he doesn’t know why I always have I Want to Hold Your Hand stuck in my head when I’m with him. He just thinks I really like The Beatles. Which is fine, because he does, too.