on the playground

Spending a Sunday night with someone you secretly long for is worse than spending a Sunday night alone. Why? Because there's nothing I can say or do short of removing my sweater and asking him to partake that really seems worth the risk of humiliation. Sigh. Crushes - they're the worst.

The last time I felt this way, I was nine-years-old. Right before the bell for recess would ring, I'd instinctively pull out my strawberry-flavored Lip Smackers and lather up, somehow thinking fruit-scented lips would win him over. This is how I know I have a crush - I'm doing it again. Only now it's high-shine pink Nars lipgloss ironically titled "orgasm."

It's about time. I don't really remember the last time I got nervous around anyone. That's not to say I haven't been interested in the past few men I've dated, only that the way things developed never included me crushing of my own volition. And they certainly never included me giggling at non-jokes or saying things that make no sense because of an inexplicable onset of stuttering. Damn though - I like it.

Anyway, I'm not exactly at my figurative knees, hence the need to call it a crush. I'm not in love with the dude, nor have I developed any sort of adult relationshipy feelings. It's just a warm, silly, I-kinda-wanna-cuddle-with-you-when-I-look-at-your-face sort of feeling that I'm likely going to have to quit in about a week when I realize he's never going to do anything. Until then, I'm okay with the idea of him, randomly making me smile when I'm trying to grant my unfortunate clients asylum.

Omg. I almost touched his arm.

Who am I kidding? I’m kept.