The title misleads. It was a first, but not the first. My last crush actually occurred in a prior millennium, so this, my first in the twenty first century, felt like heretofore unexplored terrain. Occurring two years after my marriage imploded, crushing equaled a novel concept. This new crush occurred at work. I teach English, he teaches math. Occasionally, we’d pass in the halls. I can’t pinpoint the moment Paul—tall with the smile that could disarm hordes of rapacious, barbarian pillagers—transitioned from a coworker to someone I wanted to fuck. Words often punch through my lips and escape my mouth without my consent—when I was younger, I liked to shock people for attention and despite the fact that I’m supposed to be a professional adult now, I sometimes revert and say stupid shit. And that’s where this story leads, to me saying stupid shit. But I’m getting ahead of myself—EVERYONE at school knew about my crush. And despite the temptation to have someone approach Pete on my behalf, maybe with a note like those passed in junior high which stated: “Do you like Rachel? Check one: yes, no, maybe”, I decided behaving like an adult might appear more attractive—especially to an older man. I first employed a stealth approach—I altered my route to the bathroom so I could pass closer to his classroom. I brazenly outfitted myself with the accoutrements of my gender—the skirts, the lipstick, the perfume. And of course the fuck-me shoes I wore daily to show off my one asset, my legs, and so my ass would sway a little more as I sashayed past his classroom. When I walked by him in the hallway, he smiled and my heart rate increased, while a wave of nausea swirled through me, completing the cliché.
The stealth approach produced zero results, so on a workday without students, I finally screwed my courage to the sticking place and sauntered down the hallway into his classroom. I invited him to The Sound of Music (I was the assistant director), offering him a free ticket. I also found enough courage to friend him on Facebook. He accepted my friend request (which as a rational being I know I shouldn’t read into because who doesn’t accept friend requests?), and he showed up at the play, saying as he picked up his ticket, “See? I told you I’d come,” whilst assailing me with that blazingly fabulous smile. During Act II, I seated myself in the vacant seat next to him. He whispered compliments on the production to me as I regressed to the teenager in the movie theater wishing the cute boy would hold my hand. However, since it was closing night, I was called on stage to accept congratulations from the cast. By the time I made it offstage and through the crowd, he’d already disappeared into the night like Cinderella. My vision of celebratory drinks leading to a mad make-out session dissipated. With the end of the school year looming, I feared I’d never get the chance to consummate my crush.
Two weeks prior to summer break, Pete and I ended up invited to the same barbecue, taking place on May 27th. I know it was May 27th because my Facebook post, dated May 27th, reads, “Now I remember why I don’t drink. FML.” (This bit of foreshadowing lets you know that this story doesn’t have a fairy-tale ending). I sent out positive vibes to the universe. I visualized “good things” (which some might call sexual fantasies, but whatever). I arrived smelling pretty. And he was there. And he looked delicious. And I couldn’t stop imagining us naked together. So I drank a few vodka and crans because I was terrified of talking to him. Mellowed by the drinks, I finally sat next to him near the fire pit outside. We spoke, about his new iPhone and I think his shoes…
All too soon, the intimate crowd began the dispersal process, offering farewells and admonitions to drive home safely. I followed him out the door, into the twilight. We were alone, and he was about to leave without fulfilling any of my lurid fantasies. So fortified with about four vodka and crans sans dinner, I finally spoke, directly, without equivocation, and remarkably without slurring: “You know I have a huge crush on you, right?”
He took one step back. Oops. Too direct, I guess. “No, I didn’t know. I’m flattered. I’m just not emotionally available right now, for reasons I don’t really want to get into…” We exchanged a few more sentences, and then he slipped into the night, away…
Since I possessed a higher than legal blood alcohol level, I went back inside and waited for sobriety. While waiting, I reflected on the phrase, “I’m flattered” and cursed my stupidity at speaking of my enormous crush. However, at some point as I leaned against Brandy’s kitchen island drinking coffee, I decided to accept the fact that I am biologically incapable of keeping my mouth shut, and then progressed to examining my feelings: disappointment and embarrassment. To my pleasant surprise, that was all. I was accustomed to rejection leading to a black spiral of self-loathing where I rehash all of the rejections I’ve faced in my life: boys, men, my parents, publishers, employers.
But this night I didn’t end up as a puddle of self-loathing. My culminating feeling was a mental shrug and a “whatever.” So although I had to again alter my bathroom route at school to now avoid Pete, my first crush in this millennium left me feeling elated rather than crushed. So one man didn’t want me. Perhaps fifty is too old for me anyway. Although I’m a little embarrassed, and thankful that I can pretend it was all because I drank too much, I’m also grateful for the experience. First, it tells me that for once in my thirty-seven years, I’m probably emotionally mature enough to handle dating someone because I don’t expect him to validate my worth. Secondly, it shows that the money I spent on therapy to quit hating myself coupled with a steady supply of prescription drugs works. Lastly, It shows that I have an innate need to stay stupid shit, and I had better embrace all of the inevitable awkwardness as growth opportunities—otherwise, I’ll end up with such circuitous bathroom routes that I’ll never make it back to my classroom before the bell.
The stealth approach produced zero results, so on a workday without students, I finally screwed my courage to the sticking place and sauntered down the hallway into his classroom. I invited him to The Sound of Music (I was the assistant director), offering him a free ticket. I also found enough courage to friend him on Facebook. He accepted my friend request (which as a rational being I know I shouldn’t read into because who doesn’t accept friend requests?), and he showed up at the play, saying as he picked up his ticket, “See? I told you I’d come,” whilst assailing me with that blazingly fabulous smile. During Act II, I seated myself in the vacant seat next to him. He whispered compliments on the production to me as I regressed to the teenager in the movie theater wishing the cute boy would hold my hand. However, since it was closing night, I was called on stage to accept congratulations from the cast. By the time I made it offstage and through the crowd, he’d already disappeared into the night like Cinderella. My vision of celebratory drinks leading to a mad make-out session dissipated. With the end of the school year looming, I feared I’d never get the chance to consummate my crush.
Two weeks prior to summer break, Pete and I ended up invited to the same barbecue, taking place on May 27th. I know it was May 27th because my Facebook post, dated May 27th, reads, “Now I remember why I don’t drink. FML.” (This bit of foreshadowing lets you know that this story doesn’t have a fairy-tale ending). I sent out positive vibes to the universe. I visualized “good things” (which some might call sexual fantasies, but whatever). I arrived smelling pretty. And he was there. And he looked delicious. And I couldn’t stop imagining us naked together. So I drank a few vodka and crans because I was terrified of talking to him. Mellowed by the drinks, I finally sat next to him near the fire pit outside. We spoke, about his new iPhone and I think his shoes…
All too soon, the intimate crowd began the dispersal process, offering farewells and admonitions to drive home safely. I followed him out the door, into the twilight. We were alone, and he was about to leave without fulfilling any of my lurid fantasies. So fortified with about four vodka and crans sans dinner, I finally spoke, directly, without equivocation, and remarkably without slurring: “You know I have a huge crush on you, right?”
He took one step back. Oops. Too direct, I guess. “No, I didn’t know. I’m flattered. I’m just not emotionally available right now, for reasons I don’t really want to get into…” We exchanged a few more sentences, and then he slipped into the night, away…
Since I possessed a higher than legal blood alcohol level, I went back inside and waited for sobriety. While waiting, I reflected on the phrase, “I’m flattered” and cursed my stupidity at speaking of my enormous crush. However, at some point as I leaned against Brandy’s kitchen island drinking coffee, I decided to accept the fact that I am biologically incapable of keeping my mouth shut, and then progressed to examining my feelings: disappointment and embarrassment. To my pleasant surprise, that was all. I was accustomed to rejection leading to a black spiral of self-loathing where I rehash all of the rejections I’ve faced in my life: boys, men, my parents, publishers, employers.
But this night I didn’t end up as a puddle of self-loathing. My culminating feeling was a mental shrug and a “whatever.” So although I had to again alter my bathroom route at school to now avoid Pete, my first crush in this millennium left me feeling elated rather than crushed. So one man didn’t want me. Perhaps fifty is too old for me anyway. Although I’m a little embarrassed, and thankful that I can pretend it was all because I drank too much, I’m also grateful for the experience. First, it tells me that for once in my thirty-seven years, I’m probably emotionally mature enough to handle dating someone because I don’t expect him to validate my worth. Secondly, it shows that the money I spent on therapy to quit hating myself coupled with a steady supply of prescription drugs works. Lastly, It shows that I have an innate need to stay stupid shit, and I had better embrace all of the inevitable awkwardness as growth opportunities—otherwise, I’ll end up with such circuitous bathroom routes that I’ll never make it back to my classroom before the bell.
