Crushed

On Sundays, I clean.

I also assiduously avoid talking to people who are not QQ if I can. Sunday is my day to relax and unwind, to decompress and prepare for my week. For as many hours as I can manage, I let myself become the center of my own universe, cleaning my space, performing a number of beauty rituals (deep conditioning, facial, eyebrow shaping), and napping to my heart’s content. Unless, of course, I have a crush on someone.

Then my zen is all fucked up.

I don’t get crushes often. It is increasingly rare that I meet someone who gets me to remember their name, let alone give them my full attention. I find myself that woman I always feared I would become; the one who has seen it all, knows all the games and is generally apathetic to anything that isn’t genuine. And Lord knows genuine is on ration. When it comes to dating recently, I have become a lot like Daria in the opening credits of her show; I can barely be bothered to show up, and when I do, I can’t be bothered to participate.

But, Jesus, when I am actually in like with someone? God help us all. In between crushes, I completely forget what they’re like. Every single one knocks me on my ass like the last one and proves that no matter how mature and well acquainted with game I am, if someone who has your attention calls you gorgeous, you fall apart a little on the inside. I have to admit, dear readers, I am hopelessly awkward in the safety of my bedroom. I find myself thinking without permission, “Oh, I should tell him about this.”

And I don’t like it not even one bit.

My friends, well, they love it. They send me taunting text messages;

HAHAHAHA you thought this was him texting you didn’t you? Did you dive across the fucking room?

I get that message from QQ one Sunday, right after I, when faced with the deafening silence from my cell phone, gave myself a pep talk something along the lines of, “Can’t fall, don’t fall, ice cold.” I dust myself off from the super secret spy roll I just busted out to cover the distance between me and the phone before responding to her.

No! How soft baked do you think I am?


Soft baked as fuck, bitch.

I hate that girl so much.

I feel like at some point I should have gotten too old, learned too many lessons, seen too much, grown up far too much, to still be acting like a high schooler, sitting up having marathon phone conversations into the wee, quiet hours of the morning like I don’t have a damn job to go to. Laughing out loud at silly text messages we exchange. Failing at stopping a smile from spreading wide across my face when his name pops up on my cell.

Apparently, I have not.

That is the bad news.

The good news is, I am getting TONS of exercise, what with all the running from all over the house, diving, lunging, and rolling around in bed giggling I’ve been doing.

*sigh* I’m too old for this shit.