Crushes

Slightly worried at how innapropriate it was to let on about my crush. It seemed a good idea on Hermitage Road, but by Ashfield I was wanting to climb back into the box of olde, reserved, safety. Where things are never different and change is a bit difficult and far away, and, I'm ok here, thanks. It made me want to draw out a binary diagram, the yes and no answers for each possible permutation, working back from the event to check I had done right, ok, mildly acceptably, only a tad wrongly. But then life's too full of ifs and buts to do a binary diagram for every time I feel I may have made a new social error.

What is a crush. Is it a safe harbour for amorous inklings, a personal space that can't be tinged with reality and second opinion? Or is it a holding bay for prospects, catapulted out into NOW when the spring is loaded and the idea light. A crush is an idea of romance, laid over a person. They swim around in this pool like the bass in the story that I haven't finished yet. I have my feet dipped into the pool, my head raked back towards the vitamin D, waiting for the right time to jump in. Dipping in is all well and good, but there's nothing like the transformation of total immersion. Washing over you.

The old me would never have deemed it proper to relay such a nugget as 'I fancy your friend'. I never, never once did that at school. Imagine that. I thought myself out of the idea that I was any good many a time. I strived to avoid confrontation and embarrassment for most of my adolescence. I didn't date, I danced and drank till deciding I was better than dancing and drinking and dicking around with some nobody just because of geography. I was looking, but my halves were not in the DY area. My god were they not. I was in the wrong place without even realising, and it rendered me ridiculous.

The new me wants to swing and dance and giggle and do the things that confidence restricted 10 years ago, before it's twenty years too late and I feel infinitely woeful. I'm solving problems a decade old, admittedly a lot more thoroughly than would have been possible at the time. I am enjoying it, but I do feel rather foolish. Picking my way through the rules, making mistakes, hoping the triumphs will cream the top of some rather messy trifle.

The triumphs. Man did I giggle on the way home last night. Four hours sleep, a 5am bacon sarnie, charging Colin Farell for 3000 pain(s) au(x) chocolate(s). Some tea, some wine, no dinner, some rhythm that got me somewhere and spun my red skirt round in the most disgustingly attention-seeking manner. Alan, Thomas, Tony, Ross, Trigger from only fools and horses, yes really, old and lecherous and as expected. Three hours later I stop the hot lindy hopper taking off his shoes to ask for a first and last dance. Delightful smiles and honest abandon, what the hell is better than boundless reciprocation. Can I have a dance next week, yes fucking please. Skipping down the street, smug giggle, snigger, giggle squeak.

I'm hoping the possible faux pas and wrong feet can be eclipsed by these flashes of pure glee. Such moments are all about me. I am not left wanton and hungry, questioning my actions and angles, but feel whole and round and gilded by something I deserve and wouldn't want to explain away. If you never put yourself out for taking, perhaps the universe won't know where to take you. Now if I could just stop stressing over releasing this crush into the wild and focus on being a ridiculously exciting future person, and the fact that he didn't have to touch my arm like that as we parted. It's all about me.