Crushed

I'm a romantic, and I have no trouble admiting it most of the time (see So, I like Hearts). The other night I made one of those frequent Molly comments, blatantly ripped of from Brandon years ago, that I like my beer "bitter like my heart," (works great for coffee, too. And then you get to say "bitter and black like my heart."). But, of course, I'm not really bitter- most of the time I live in hope, mostly just because that's what comes functionally to me. Those who know me well know I've got dark corners, but for the most part sunshine is the best disinfectant. And you don't have to know me very well to know I crush like crazy.

Now, with that said, I like crushes a lot better than relationships, at least at the moment. I like having a good, long standing appreciation of some fantastic person or another. Forays into taking these crushes from a purely puppy phase into something more mature have met with mixed results. However, especially recently, I have begun to enjoy crushes that extend as mostly that- a gentler infatuation tinged with a yummy amount of desire, details, and teasing.

I have had a crush on a friend in L.A. for umpteen years. He's great looking and dresses well and is successful and has fantastic taste in music and in women, especially his most current friend. He has that all important accessory- glasses! He also has one of the best crush devices- a fantastically challenging library. It's the kind of library I look at sideways because it takes up a whole wall and therefore could take up a whole evening. There are books on economics and feminism as well as books I've never heard of and books in other languages. But here's where it goes from admiration to crush- left alone for most of an evening, after falling asleep 2 nights in a row looking at spines aligned, I finally breached the shelves. Thumbing past Infinite Jest and Dangerous Angels (yeah, he has my favorite book from childhood...) I found a complete page a day calendar of George Carlin quotes. And I tucked my feet under my ass and read on the wood floor voraciously through the month of April before he unexpectedly came home.

I kinda hid that I, left to my own devices, had picked this out of everything. We played dominoes and he let me steal his french fries. We drank whiskey. And then, wonderfully then, he brought out the calendar and began to read to me. He has a lovely voice, and wonderful reading style. And best of all, a molasses laugh that has a base you can feel more than hear across the room. This, to me, is the pinnacle of a perfect romance. These sorts of shared moments, more candid than intimate, that do not leave me wanting more, but only wanting that.

More recently there is a crush here, one that sometimes plays ping pong with me, and has recently begun to open up about things closer to his heart. But, really, the ping pong is enough. The slow, delicious learning about another heavenly body in orbit 10 feet away is plenty. It's still, for me, exciting to get an email, or to look at eyes and posture, to watch in action. And, what is best about crushes, at least for me, is I know who is feeling this pleasure. He seems to be great, but I am experiencing my sensational range of emotions, independent of anything he can do. I would hate to ruin that by forcing him to be too aware of my dark corners, or by getting to know him well enough that I knew he had faults besides not liking me as much as I would like him to. I don't need warts right now, and I certainly don't desire exclusivity or even further intimacies. All I need is the wondrous fantasy of proximity and the occasional trouncing using paddles. I'm as happy as a clam with potential adventure- actual adventures will be appreciated in time, I'm sure. Hopefully ones including the kind of paddles you dip in water.

There was to be more, but heaven's, this has gotten long enough. Must away to make things with stuff!