Crush No. 14

I can’t stop humming 'Raspberry Beret' in my head. I don’t know why. It’s been three days now. There’s nothing about the song that really suggests Sarah, nor have we shared any moments involving it. But something about it – I think it might be the violins – makes me think about her smile.

It’s been awhile since I’ve found myself this far deep into this sort of gooey, seventh-grade infatuation, and to be honest it’s a bit scary. I think I might be getting a little too old to handle the next bit. Or at least I should be. It’s not going to be easy.

I will run into her at a party, and be on edge for every second I am in her presence (actually, even at the mere mention of her name). Every nerve in my body will be buzzing and throbbing. Every cool line I had saved up for the moment will go out the window, and I will stutter and stammer and later on play Monday morning quarterback regarding what I should have said. I will try to work clarifications and corrections into a later conversation, but it will fester inside until that time comes.

I will learn things about her in passing, things like the fact that she isn’t fond of dogs or that she is considering pursuing graduate school. I will nod and take them in without much alarm, but later on that night I will have to scramble to amend the plans I had mapped out for us in my head.

I will Google her name. It will list nothing but the results from a high school track meet she ran in five years ago (2:16.23 in the 800-meter). I will learn from the student directory that her middle name is Madison.

I will hear stories of her past sexual escapades, and will have to laugh passively as if to say ‘Oh, you crazy girl!’ while my guts coil into a queasy knot. I will have to spend at least a few nights lying awake in bed, thinking about her blowing Kenny Conway in a hotel bathroom (Kenny fucking Conway!).

There will be the nights I won’t see her – most nights, actually - which will drag on listlessly. I will sit at the bar and halfheartedly stare at a baseball game I don’t care about, tuning out a friend’s rambling as I ponder the infinite possibilities of what she could be doing. I will go home early because 'I just don’t feel like drinking'.

I will eventually have to bite the bullet and ask her out. Not one of those things where we meet up amongst friends and talk at a party, but a bold offer for exclusive company, one that will unravel all of the indifferent-yet-intrigued mystique I had worked so hard to build up. I will dial six digits and hang up for a few times. I might play a song or two to psyche myself up, maybe even jot down an outline of what I plan to say. If her voicemail picks up I will leave a clumsy, fumbling message that carries on far too long.

As I ask there will be an incredible suction pulling at my guts, the kind you feel at the top of the roller coaster or when the road takes an unexpected dip, except much more intense. If she declines that suction feeling will reside for a couple of weeks. Prince will be replaced by Bob Dylan and Ryan Adams and every other sad love song I own.

If she accepts, that will bring up the challenge of The Date. I will have to downplay it, and act cool, showing that I don’t really feel like its The Date, just a date. But it won’t be. I will be up early, making sure I have everything ready – razor, hair gel, cologne. My top caliber shirt – the one with the pointy collars – will have a mysterious stain on it and I will have to rush frantically to the dry cleaners, even though I have ten or so hours to go. I will meticulously scrub every orifice of my body in a half-hour shower that takes every last drop of hot water, and play the Rolling Stones as I get ready, combing my hair into a hundred different never-before-attempted styles before doing it the same way I always have. I will pull sixty dollars from the ATM that afternoon, even though I will probably only need twenty or so. I will arrive ten minutes after I had said I would, just to look careless.

I will backtrack like a politician whenever she disagrees with a stated preference or dislike. ‘Well, I don’t really hate it, but…’ Even the most insignificant shared common interest – a mutual appreciation of The Sopranos or my knowledge of a restaurant in her hometown– will lead me to believe that this girl and I really click. We are two of the same. We match. This is when I decide that we will have two boys, and hope she doesn’t mind Dylan and Lennon. I will try to think of names for girls, but nothing will sound as pretty as Sarah.

If I get on the dance floor with her, which will most certainly happen at some point if things go well, I will make an ass out of myself. The cool moves in front of my mirror will suddenly not seem all that cool, and the music won’t be the Prince I had envisioned in my head, but rather something along the lines of 'Shake Ya Ass' or 'Back That Ass Up'. I will have most likely had one too many and just sort of gyrate awkwardly and hang my hands limply around her waist. I will question every move frantically. Should I move closer to her? Rub my crotch against her ass? Is that going too far? What if she thinks I’m prude for not?

When I drop her off at home there will be The Good Night Kiss Debacle. I will say something stupid, like ‘I had fun tonight’, because I can’t think of anything better to say. She’ll repeat that and we’ll promise to call, and then I will have to act. I will offer up a handshake for a quick second before pulling it away and throwing my arms out for a hug. As we move close I will notice that she had moved her head in for a second, and I will question it. Was she going in? Did she want a kiss? Have I blown the chance? To make up for it, I will try to kiss her on the cheek but will be off and catch half her eye.

Completely disgusted with myself, I will try to come up with some banter long enough to warrant a second goodbye. I won’t have anything and will repeat my promise to call again and just stand around in silence. We will giggle nervously and I will move in for a kiss and she will too, faster than I will have calculated, resulting in our teeth clacking together.

The second date will be quite similar to the first, with slightly less pressure. I will realize in preparation that my second-best shirt is not all that impressive, and will have to fly out to the mall to pick up something new. Halfway through the date I will realize in the bathroom that I forgot to take off the sticky plastic strip lined with the repetitious first letter of the shirt size.

At the end of this date the kiss will be a little less gawky, but nonetheless troublesome. We will make-out in front of her door for far too long. I will run out of moves and have to repeat them, going back and forth from lips to her cheek, her neck, down to her collarbone and back up again until it becomes tedious. I will wonder if she’s going to ask me in. She won’t, and on the walk home I will feel like I have done something wrong – that maybe she was going to ask me in for a drink, but the whole lips-to-cheek-to-neck-to-collarbone-and-back thing changed her mind.

I will both anticipate and dread the first sexual encounter. I will want nothing more than for her to just rip her clothes off, but then again, what kind of girl hops right into bed on the third date? What if I can’t get it up? When have I ever not been able to not get it up? Will those boner pills they sell in the bowling alley bathroom help me fuck longer? What if she has weird moles? Do her breasts look like I picture them? What if she’s crazy and kinky and likes to be slapped? Would I be willing to wear some weird leather body suit and a ball gag? Is Kenny Conway’s dick bigger than mine?

It will happen on a night that I hadn’t planned for it to. I will run into her at a bar, wearing a thrift store t-shirt. I will not have shaved that morning, and my deodorant will have begun to wear off. When she asks if I would like to go somewhere else, I will abandon my friends without a second thought.

There will be some sounds and smells and mishandled groping that hadn’t been anticipated in my fantasies, but on the whole it will go rather seamlessly– no moles or whips. Afterwards I will not be able to sleep. I will lie there long after the initial glow has worn off and listen to the crickets outside, wondering if it would be alright to go downstairs and make a sandwich.

The next morning I will take her to Bob Evans for breakfast and realize how pretty she still looks without make-up. We will have eggs and coffee and talk about the papers we have to write that evening. On the way back home I will drum the steering wheel with authority and sing along with Steve Perry. When the guitar solo wails I will pump my fist and clench my teeth in jubilation. I will decide 'Open Arms' should be our wedding song.

We will begin calling each other at random times, even if we don’t really have anything to talk about. There will be times late at night where we won’t even say anything at all for long intervals - we will just sit in silence content to know that we’re on the line together. There will be all sorts of cutesy gifts – if she comes down with a mild cold I will bring over a Blockbuster rental and some soup – and I will have to choose a pet name for her.

I will get to know her roommates, and say hi to them on my way to class. Sometimes late at night I will run into them in the hallway as I’m trying to navigate my way to the bathroom, disheveled and in my boxers. After awhile the situation will become so comfortable that I might crack a joke.

I will realize one night, as I hold her hair while she vomits in some bushes after having a bit too much to drink at the bar, that I love her. I won’t tell her right then. It will come out during a mundane Tuesday evening phone conversation; I will have meant to have saved it for sometime special, but she’ll have said something cute and it will just pop out. She will say it back.

If I can find a way to get through all of this in one piece, things will become a bit more manageable, less chaotic. I can just enjoy being with her, without having to wrestle with all the hassles of Kenny Conway or boners or how I should comb my hair. I won’t have to try to remember what her eyes look like, or rush out to get a last-minute haircut before we get together.

All of this nauseous, panicky doubt will fade away, and I will settle back into being a relatively rational twenty-two year old. Unless, of course, we happen to break-up. But that’s a whole other scenario that I don’t have time to think about right now. I have to get ready for the party. Sarah will be there.