I can barely remember the last time I had a really good crush.
In the last year I've dabbled in dating, sex, lust, drama, romantic indifference, affection and love but can't recall a single genuine crush in the fray. There hasn't been an exciting stomach-flippy, giggle-inducing man in my life, however peripherally, in a sadly long time.
I came to this realization, in true tragic single girl form, watching TV last night and realizing that no one, but no one I have encountered in the last year has a grin that makes my knees buckle like John Krasinski or Jeffrey Dean Morgan can. Has the world-- and by "the world," I do mean the "quantity of crushable men in the greater District area"-- really decayed so much that I am more turned on by television than by a breathing, flesh and blood male?
The last crush I remember having was in the fall of 2005. He was a friend of a friend who introduced himself by asking who I lost my virginity to. He had one of those grins that tells you right away that he loves trouble, that this will be a battle of wills and that he gets off on being adversarial. It was all very Taming of the Shrew, with Thomas Pink instead of breeches. Running into him at bars, Nats games and parties in the months that followed felt exactly what a good crush should feel like-- all tingly and teasing, banter that practically crackled with electricity and rushing back to clusters of girlfriends to breathlessly report on the nonconversation. Never wondering if he'd hurt me or I'd get bored with him or if he'd get along with my friends, just enjoying flirting with the cute boy.
My high school philosophy teacher once told me "the kiss is always best just before it happens." Meaning that, the anticipation of something, the moment when you're on the brink of inevitable, is really the thing that makes it great. The actual event, however good, is always a slight letdown from whatever you had elevated it to in your mind.
Now, I rarely embrace my inner girly-girl. You will find very few books with covers featuring scrawly drawing of heels or shopping bags on my shelves. Pink makes me look bloated. I am the only girl I know who doesn't find Justin Timberlake particularly sexy (falsetto voices creep me out, okay? A man should not speak in a higher pitch than I do!). I generally think of myself as a woman, not a girl.
But this woman is due for some giggling and silliness and sexual brinkmanship. For some harcore flirting with a cute stranger accompanied by stupid after-the-fact grinning, the kind where my girlfriends say things like "you can't stop smiling!" And if a Jeffrey Dean Morgan lookalike would like to play the role of "Object of Crush," well, then, that'd just be the buttercream icing on the cupcake.
The crush: so hot for Spring 2007.