A Girl...

Crushed, Velvet

In a recent conversation with a male friend upon whom I sustain a faithfully platonic crush, I accused him of "being a smoosh for a pretty face and good writing." He added, "And olive skin," at which point my crush verbed his noun self and crushed my poor little non-olive-skinned heart. Even though I don't "want" this guy in "that way," it still sucked to hear what amounted to "Sorry, babe, but you're not my type."

It reminded me of the time in high school when I had a thing for Jason Hansen (who I should make better efforts to stay in touch with because he's still really cool). At one point we found ourselves seventeenish and aloneish at a party and I asked him what he looked for in a girl. I wasn't just fishing; I was actually curious, but maybe I wouldn't have asked if I knew his response would be a quick and simple "Nice teeth." Again with the crushing.

Because despite protests to the contrary (1. Simon; 2. my dentist), my teeth are not "cute." They are jacked, and my central incisors look like Chicklets, which is fine if you're a bunny puppet but not if you're...well, not a bunny puppet. (Note: I am not a bunny puppet.)

Anyway, it sucks to feel unwanted, doesn't it? And it sucks whether you want to be wanted in "that way" or not. As you know, however, I've no room to complain these days, as I am full up to here with wantedness, and besides, Jason and I never would have been a good couple anyway. Too little melanin between us = albino babies.

As for my olive-skin-smoosher crush, he picked me up before I could even get down about my pasty paleness: "Olive-skin. Yeah. But not exclusively." Well!

Down, boy. And thanks.