Crushed

Gone With The Wind has always been described as this love triangle, right? Scarlet loved Ashely, Rhet loved Scarlet, Ashely sort of loved Scarlet but would never marry her and then Scarlet finally tragically figures out that she only ever really loved Rhet. But here's the thing--it all starts out with this massive crush she has on Ashley.

Is there anything more breathlessly exquisite or exquisitely painful as a crush? How many did I have as a teenager and single adult? Mostly on celebrities but also, more terribly on boys and then men who were friends. Always just friends.

The dictionary defines a crush as being brief intense unexpressed love. Which makes it sound like a firework exploding in a Ziploc bag. I don’t know about yours but mine were never brief. At least not the ones I had on real people (not that celebrities aren’t real people, what I mean is tangible as opposed to celluloid—er that’s not right either, I apologize to every movie/TV star I’ve ever crushed on, I totally acknowledge your physical existence). Nope, my crushes went on for years at a time.

And here’s the thing and why I want to talk about them. I feel like, if I’m being completely honest, they were my only brushes with passionate romantic love. And is that sad? Is it terrible that I never acted on any of them? Or would it have been worse if I had and each one had destroyed me as utterly as I deep down expected them to?

My crushes were dedicated, involved, devoted. Yes, they were textbook obsessive too. But I knew those guys, spent time with them doing things that meant something to them and me. That was always easy because we were friends. I crushed on them because we started as friends. All the descriptions and definitions of crushes talk about surface attraction and shallow fantasies. I can’t be the only person ever that developed crushes on partners they actually knew well and adored for real personality traits. 

A Crush is Born

The first real crush that I can remember started at the tail end of grammar school and lasted dimly through my early twenties. As a kid I ran around with my cousin, a boy born the same year as me. We were like best friend siblings. Then we started different grammar schools and he got a “real” best friend.

This boy was faintly mysterious and cool because he lived on an actual ranch about an hour north of us and had a horse and everything. I would hear stories about my cousin spending weekends roughing it with him while I was left on my own to read or worse, watch our KTVU Chiller Diller Saturday afternoon monster movies alone.

It was jealousy at first sight when we finally met. Blond, blue-eyed, cowboy lanky, with lively quick humor. I saw immediately what my cousin idolized about him. Yeah, I fell hard. I remember at that age doing cliché crush things. I even kicked him once. You know, like pulling the pretty girl’s pig tails. I think I was trying to keep up with a conversation about clever combat moves. Always the eager tomboy I demonstrated my finest Judo move and instead executed a brutal squirrel tap. Ah, good times.

We grew older. I “blossomed” early. Like, end of grammar school early. That was super fun. Especially because I was never a thin girl. Always pudgy, puberty was cruel. I sprouted a pot belly, large round hips, and heavy never-to-be-pert breasts. And boys were no longer a tribe I wanted to be an exclusive member of. Suddenly the idea of kicking my cousin’s bestie in the nuts became not only embarrassing but something I desperately regretted. I would only ever be seen as “one of the boys”. And I knew now that I was passionately “in love” with him.

I honestly don’t remember any girls he dated in high school. I just remember being deeply, achingly lovesick. He liked all the stuff I did. Of course, he’d replaced me as my cousin’s best friend. Tolkien, Celtic mythology, annual Renaissance Fairs, DIY medieval armor and swords (in your homemade forge, duh), making movies with Grandpa’s super 8 staring action figures we blew up with firecrackers. What can I say, our interests were varied and refined?

I was proud to be part of his inner circle of friends. Deep down I knew we’d never share a knee wobbling kiss but there were other perks. His eyes would always light up when he saw me. I knew all the ways to make him laugh, especially when he most needed to. Best of all, we’d arrange to sit together in classes we shared. Mostly, if I’m honest, because he wanted someone to entertain him. He was never as academically inclined as I was, our one great divide.

And then we graduated. I went off to college and he went off to wander the world less-intellectual-Kerouac style. I was far too busy riding waves of struggle, anxiety, success, anxiety, more struggle, etc. to think about him often or finally at all. 

 

Crush II The Crappy Sequel

I fell for other men who thoroughly enjoyed my company and trusted me with all the stories of their ridiculously awful dates. All with women that confused them. Mainly because the insides weren’t as interesting as the outsides. Just because they’re pretty and laugh at your jokes when you’re picking them up doesn’t mean they won’t turn out to be boring as a Saltine cracker in the light of day.

My adult crushes were probably no more or less painful than my teenage ones were. They like to say that everything is so much more intense in your teen years. But I believe some emotions can be just as explosive or pulverizing no matter what age you are. The dictionary also describes the word crush as: to break (something) into a powder or very small pieces by pressing, pounding, or grinding it. While my adult crushes had bursts of adrenaline (fear of exposure, the rush of occasional hope), the flip side was deep sadness (feeling broken, unattractive, somehow unable to fit with anyone in that puzzle piece way of relationships).

I knew it was not a healthy cycle. I did what I could to find a real relationship of my own. What sucked was that the men I “loved” were indelibly woven into my circle of friends. Unavoidable, like that tiny sore area on your lip that you know would heal up in a couple of days if you would just stop chewing on it every so often. Except it’s right there so how do you leave it alone when it’s so irritating and kind of satisfying when you rip it open?

Crush III Back To The Future

Act 1: "I'm not Josie Grossie anymore!"

And then the invitation to my cousin’s wedding arrived in the mail. First. Huh, he’s getting married before me. Yeah, I know petty, selfish but being honest here. He’s as close to a real brother as I have. No competition, right? We’d been neck and neck with careers. Both doing what we loved, me for much better money (so maybe I was keeping a tiny score there). And now he had beaten me to the altar.

As I bought airline tickets and packed for the trip, I thought about a lot of things. Growing up with my cousin, my opinions of his fiancé, the warm thrill of seeing most of my family who I lived so far away from now. But mostly I thought about seeing my cousin’s best friend, my old crush. He was set to be the Best Man at the wedding. I would be seeing him again for the first time in 8 years.

I was actually looking forward to this. I was at one of those points in my life where my weight was down. I’m never thin, I just swing from heavy to varying degrees of curvy which, on a short woman, is relatively hard to pull off. It involves the usual diet and exercise but also careful selection of clothing. But I had found the perfect dress for the wedding—bold red and just the right cut to hide the unwanted bulges and show off the desirable ones. I was rocking a great haircut (I could afford an expensive hairdresser in those days), my skin was acne free at 26, and I had a career I could brag about. I was going to impress the shit out of him.

Act 2: "But this ship can't sink!"

The first day in town, before rehearsal dinner, before anything got started, I went over with my uncle to where my cousin was staying to talk wedding arrangements. I had heard his best friend hadn’t arrived yet, but I took no chances. I chose the right jeans, hugging the good curves loose over the rest, a top in a color that made my fair skin look rosy and draped in a cut that gave me a waist while hiding my belly. My makeup was always understated but feminine in a girl-next-door way, but I doubled down on it this time. It had to be perfect.

My cousin had moved to a midwestern state. God knows why, I have never been able to fathom it. His wedding was in June. It was hot and humid. Between the motel and my cousin’s place I realized 2 things. 1) None of the wardrobe items I had packed would be appropriate for this sweltering heat no matter how fantastic they made me look. 2) I had already half-melted like a popsicle left out on a countertop.

In the bathroom I raced to once we arrived, I surveyed the damage. My smart haircut, so recently blow dried to perfection, had wrinkled into damp curls around the edges. Sweat shone on my face and slightly daring neckline. The delicate necklace I’d chosen now stuck to my skin like a glittering worm. Oh. Hell. No.

I steeled myself and located a hand towel to blot away the sweat without smearing my makeup. The hair I wet and straightened and tucked behind my ears, fashioning a style without my charming soft fringe. It was stark but looked intentional and definitely better than the sweaty-disheveled look. When there was nothing more I could repair, I took a deep breath and told the desperate woman in the mirror she was still way cooler than she had been in high school.

And there he was of course when I came out. Not even time for my new “hair style” to dry. He’d arrived early and charged over immediately. It’s cliché to say my stomach dropped out, so I’ll go with a trap door opening in my gut as my insides went “Bonsai!” I literally felt hollow for a minute or so. I heard myself saying “Hey, how are you? It’s been so long!” But the words were auto pilot because the rest of me was gone, having an out of body experience watching me talking to him for the first time in forever.

Act 3: "Love is patient, love is kind, love means slowly losing your mind."

His blond hair was a little shaggier, his blue eyes just as wry. He was still tall and lean with a way of standing that made you think of what might happen if Indiana Jones and John McClane had a baby. And then he smiled. Oh. My. God. He was missing a tooth. Not just a tooth. One of the main 2 front teeth. Suddenly he was an extra from The Beverly Hillbillies.

He’d lost it in some weird accident during his ongoing rambles. He still hadn’t settled anywhere. He was on and off employed. He had no health or dental insurance so what was he going to do about a lost tooth? It didn’t seem to bother him. Other than the tooth he hadn’t changed at all. I mean, at all.

I’d gone to college, worked through a lot of personal issues (obviously still carried some baggage, don’t we all), understood myself better, had pursued and won a challenging career. He was the same boy I’d known and loved in high school. Just the same. Like he’d been trapped in amber. It wasn’t a turn on. It was disappointing. Worse, it was kind of…sad.

I’d love to say, “And just like that, the spell was broken.” I still wanted to impress him. Show him what he missed out on. As if, he’d suddenly realize, “Oh, man, how did I not see her before? She’s amazing, talented, cute, funny. We had such great times back in the day. What an asshole I was to be so blind.” Yeah, those fantasies but not leading to romance, just heartbroken regret for him. Punishment fantasies, I guess.

Of course, that did not happen. I wore the red dress to the wedding reception. It was airconditioned so I managed to look pretty good for most of it. He never asked me to dance. I never asked him to dance. I danced with other people (if you know anything about my dancing—this may have been an error on my part). But I utterly failed to even catch his attention. I took solace in eating a lot of wedding cake. It was a good cake. So, you know, there was that.

Crush The Final Chapter

And then it was over, and we all went home. I went back to my troubled relationship with romance, and he went back to whatever he did for that in his travels. It all faded again, this time to nothing. My high school crush had shriveled to an atrophied stump. I don’t think I’ve ever even compared my adult crushes with it until now.

Every so often he would come up in conversation when I spoke with family over the phone. He was always doing something odd in someplace unexpected. Finally, he pulled the ultimate trump card and became a hairdresser in Texas. Not just a hairdresser but a wildly successful hairdresser. Because, of course, the ladies loved him. And I can only assume he cuts hair well too. That or there are a lot of women in Texas rocking bad haircuts and nursing sweet crushes I can relate to.

And I know what you’re going to say. Those of you who make assumptions based on stereotypes anyway. He’s totally straight. Actually, I think he’s engaged now. Maybe they’re already married. I’ve lost track. He was just never into me. Unless he reads this and does the math, he’ll never know I existed as a card-carrying member of the opposite sex who would have said yes had he asked.

To Be Or Not To Be...Crushed

I always feel like people want to blame the crusher in these situations. Having a crush on someone makes you sad, obsessive, and vaguely spineless. If nothing happens it’s your fault for never acting on your feelings. But you know, with all these people I put myself out there in every way but that one terrifying confessional step. I took time to find out who they were and what was important to them. Not in a stalker-y from a distance through binoculars way. I engaged with them socially, personally. At friends’ parties, dinners, and lunches together, movies—activities you’d otherwise call dates if we weren’t “just friends”.

If nothing happens, isn’t there also a flaw in the crushee? How can you spend time with someone who enjoys you and cares about you, who listens patiently to your dating horror stories, who hangs out with you at every opportunity, who you know has no one of their own, someone who’s company you enjoy and obviously seek out? How does all that happen, and you never see that person as a lovely possibility?

For most of us a crush is our first young brush with passionate love. The experts, psychologists, say that it’s a fantasy of passionate love. But if passionate love is as psychologists also have come to understand a series of chemical reactions in the brain very like substance addiction, then I really don’t see where the brain would draw the line between a real partner and a crush.

They say the heart wants what it wants. I think the brain believes what it believes. We love passionately in so many ways. Why shouldn’t a crush be one of them?