When I was a kid, every month meant a new crush. Nay, I was no stranger to a racing heart, sweaty palms or those bittersweet butterflies in the tummy. Life was exciting then, in a way that it hasn’t been exciting in a long time.
Sure, being an adult brings its own forms of eustress – new jobs, new places, new hobbies, new freedom. But none of these can match the giddiness induced by a crush.
There’s just something about a crush. The way it develops, after multiple sightings from afar that keep the person of interest sexily shrouded in mystery. Then there are some forced run-ins, played off as casually as possible of course. Then maybe a conversation. Nothing serious, just a few words. “Hey there. Do you have the homework?” Or a meaningful, “excuse me,” as they try to squeeze past you.
Then maybe something more. A text here. AIM conversation there (urban dictionary it, kids). For a couple weeks or a couple months, all the colors in the world seem brighter and the music sweeter. You’re sure the constant change in heart-rate is positively impacting your metabolism. Yup, things are going your way.
Until it turns into something more, or even better, fades away without any heartache. Like a bout of hiccups that causes your entire body to shudder, then dies away and leaves you to get back to whatever task is at hand. Completely unbroken. Completely still innocent.
On to the next crush.
That doesn’t happen anymore. At least, not for me. There isn’t the time to admire from afar, then take it slow in conversation. Now, there is no crush first and seeing if and where it goes afterward. Now, there is dating and weeding out.
Things will never be the same because with age comes added pressure. The time for giddy excitement over Mr. Right Now has been usurped by time, and replaced with the urgent (and far less fun) search for Mr. Right.
And there is no promise of fulfillment.