Sex and Laughter: Crushed

Habits. I have a lot of them. Some good, some bad. Some just are what they are. Falling into that last category is my habit of developing crushes on people.

A unique, or sometimes not so unique, individual can cross my path and a few hours later I find myself thinking about that person. Other times, I will meet someone and not know I have any feelings for them one way or the other until I see them again and I realize I am reacting in a way that would indicate my crush meter has moved to 'high activity'. I can also develop serious crushes on complete strangers after seeing them on t.v., hearing them on the radio or reading about a character in a book.

My first crush was on a boy named Chris and I was seven years old. My cousins dared him to kiss my cheek and after he did, I was smitten. He was scrawny and tan, with brown hair. I wish I could remember more about him, but time has washed those memories to the sea. What I do remember is the inexplicable, but undeniable, butterfly feeling in my stomach. Both pleasure and pain, I loved the sensation it provided. Over the years, little has changed.

Throughout childhood, there was always a boy in my grade school class who was the object of my fascination. Darren, Andy, and a few Jeff's stepped up to occupy those spots, whether they knew it or not. I'm afraid most of the time, they knew it. I didn't limit my crushes to just real people though. I fondly remember having a thing for Lynn Swann of the Pittsburg Steelers and Drew Pearson, who played for the Dallas Cowboys.

When I got older, the crushes seemed to hit more frequently and with an ever greater force. My expanding knowledge of life and love helped set the scene for some pretty nifty daydreaming. Junior high was fraught with more opportunities for unrequited love than I care to divulge. And yet again, despite the despair, I couldn't stop. Didn't even want to stop.

As usual, my crushes seemed to blindside me when least expected. One summer, I made my friends go to the local water park as often as our parents would let us, so I could swim around and generally drool over a lifeguard who wore sunglasses like Simon Le Bon in the "Hungry Like the Wolf" video. Aside from faking a drowning, I tried everything to get him to notice me, but to no avail. It probably had something to do with the swimsuit I was wearing (see previous blog). It should be duly noted here, though, that I was never and have never been a "Simon girl". My most fervent crush of all time has always been John Taylor. Hence the blindsided feeling.

High school brought no relief. My family moved, yet again, and I was greeted with new faces, new people and a plethora of boys who made the butterflies flutter within me. The boy 'du jour' would occupy my every waking moment and multiple pages in my melodramatic journals. I could fill spiral notebook pages full of Mrs. Macy 'insert last name of current crush here' and count down the minutes until the dismissal bell rang so I could time the walk to my next class to ensure I had eye contact with said crush. Again, most were unrequited and my heart continued to take a beating. But stop? No way!

Fast forward to today. Despite being a grown woman, I still find myself crushing on people I encounter. This morning, we had an appointment with my kids' pediatrician, and I must confess, I have a crush on him. This time it has far less to do with how he looks and just about everything to do with how he treats my children. He's knowledgeable and sweet and I find that endearing.

The thing about crushes is that they are often ill timed; like the instance I was mesmerized by my mother's neurosurgeon during a very critical time in her cancer care. They are ill directed; like when you crush on your husband's best friend or your best friend's husband. And they are ill mannered; like when they cause you to willingly embarrass yourself or act like a stammering fool, when in reality you are not. At least not THAT often.

There are many benefits to growing older. Gaining wisdom is one of those perks. Now, at least, when I realize the butterflies are stirring, I know there's no need to practice writing a new name, no need to revisit water parks or doctor's offices, no need to cry crocodile tears into my pillow at night, and no need to do anything more than just enjoy the sensation. Oh, and possibly sport a warming blush that flushes my face when my latest crush waltzes by. It's a habit I'm not willing to give up.