“I ain’t a player, I just crush a lot.”
What rang true in 1997 still rings true today. It’s as if Big Punisher crawled into my head/heart space, and whittled my modus operandi down to a simple phrase played over a run-of-the-mill generic 90s beat. (Though I will be the first to admit that I wish the words came from a more attractive man, given my predilection for crushes. Go ahead – call me an asshole.)
I can trace my crush developing behavior to middle school, where my shyness coincided with four middle school transfers in three years. This unfortunate turn of events made sad, dorky love to my personality neurosis, creating an insurmountable distance between Crush du Jour and myself. I would punish myself, walking by Crush du Jour and get a thrill from the sinking stomach drop feeling, not so different from the feeling you get when you are on a wild and jerky amusement park ride. Or, Crush might have asked me some inane question about lunch or class and I would melt into a mumbling puddle of incomprehensibility.
I was, and still am, a sucker for that shit.
It may be somewhat alarming that I still continue this behavior. I think it’s healthy for me, because adult me develops crushes on people that I actually have an interaction with, rather than people I think I know, like 14 year old me. The nature of my crush has also changed – it has developed more into an admiration with a dash of lusty thoughts. They are never destructive to relationships, and they give me a blast of excitement in a normally predictable day.
I refuse to think I am alone in this tendency to crush a lot. So, come up and tell Auntie Serene a crush story, so I don’t feel like such an idiot.
File under: Vanity is overrated
I am not vain, I swear. I really don’t care much about my appearance, just as long as I am comfortable. But I have had a lingering feeling that my long hair was boring. I decided to get it dyed. Being a poor college kid, I thought I’d get it done on the cheap at the Gary Manuel Aveda training salon.
My tale of woe begins yesterday, as I walked in for my appointment. I was immediately told that my hair was too dark to be done within the alloted 2 hour appointment. I was then told my wish of getting teal was also out of the question, as apparently there is some boring rule that one shouldn’t venture two shades outside of their normal color? All I knew was getting dark brown streaks was not exactly what I had in mind.
But whatever, I decide while I was in a chair and had two hours to kill, I’d let her play with my hair. Apparently this student was utterly clueless and uncreative. I kept saying “..but I look so plain…” and “this is not at all what I want” without any success. She was apologetic, saying that she just wasn’t sure what to do. Two hours later, I walked out looking like a Stepford Wife.
I woke up this morning with the resolve to get it fixed. There was no way I could give a presentation in my class tomorrow looking like a Martha Stewart Living subscriber. (No offense if that’s your bag, but I find that brand of normalcy utterly repulsive)
Living in Capitol Hill paid off, because I found a place open on Sundays that appeared to be up for the challenge. I would go get it fixed at a quirky little joint up on 15th. I would come home prancing with renewed confidence, even if I am finishing this weekend with a lot of hair chopped off. Sadly for her there wasn’t a lot to work with, so I ended up with even less hair and a bruised ego.
Vanity is so lame. I mean, honestly, who cares if I look bad. I will still give my presentation tomorrow, I’m pretty sure my husband will still find me attractive enough, and I have plenty of hats and scarves to disguise the errors in my judgement. If nothing else, at least it is Girl Scouts cookie time. I swear to you – Thin Mints can cure the most wicked of broken spirits.