There’s something you should know about writers, kittens. We’re fucking crazy.
It took me twenty-one years to realize I wanted to write books, but the signs were there all along. I had a preoccupation with movie plot holes, took unnaturally intense pride in my perfect AP English scores, and would cut a bitch over an Oxford comma. The true warning, however, was my predilection for creating fantastically detailed romantic scenarios in my head. When wee-Grace liked somebody, she would daydream precisely how the meet-cute would occur – down to outfits, settings, and extensive dialogue.
Wee-Grace: Oh, you dropped your pencil, cute boy!
Cute Boy: So I did. This pencil actually means a lot to me – it was a gift from my late dog. Thank you for returning it, Wee-Grace.
Wee-Grace (blushing fetchingly): No problem.
Cute Boy: You wouldn’t let me buy you a milkshake to say thanks, would you?
*Wee-Grace explodes into crush particles*
Embarrassingly, I still do this. And – you should know – it’s only because this blog is anonymous that I’m even admitting such a thing. Mature, worldly feminists are not supposed to indulge in trite fantasies best left to romantic comedy screenwriters. We’re meant to be cool and collected, not bowled over until a man recites Gertrude Stein and bakes us a cake. That’s all well and good, but tell that to my brain, when I’m in the throes of attraction. Take this weekend, for example…
Mae and I navigated the treacherous stretch of I-35 between Austin and San Marcos, in order to spend a weekend making merry for Captain Thoughtful’s birthday. We were going to float the river, watch Batman, and go to Greune Hall (the oldest “dance hall” in Texas). It would be fun, low key, and filled with good barbeque. What I didn’t know? CT’s super cute, super smart, super witty friend Professor McGregor* was going to be along, as well.
Try as I might to play it cool, my brain cataloged every shared glance and laughing exchange. By Saturday morning, I had a full-blown crush and two more days to get through. The Crazies can only be held at bay for so long. When it was decided to go to Gruene again that night, they broke through my mental fortress like Harry Potter into Gringott’s.
Talk of swing-dance lessons had me envisioning an elaborate dance routine, complete with twirls, lifts, and one of those only-in-movies deep dips/lingering looks. A too-tight concert had me imagining secretly grabbed hands and shouted flirtations. Y’all, I had it so bad I was even making up scenarios involving FIFA video games and decidedly close couch sitting.
Contain your surprise – none of this happened. I know, you’re shocked, right? But..here’s the thing. Something actually did happen this weekend. Without daydreaming or hyping it up or any of the silly business I am all too lured by, my Sunday afternoon was one of long, impassioned conversation and – dare I say it? – connection.
My day-dreaming adolescence and cave-like writing life didn’t prepare me for that. In a novel, I’d skip to the end and make sure it had a happy ending. In real life? I’m listening to Best Coast and writing blogs, instead of sleeping. What does a normal person do, when reality becomes better/scarier than fiction? I don’t think I’ve been this into a guy in forever. At least, not outside of my head…
- Grace, who is too discombobulated to post anything deep today
*Picture your funniest, most interesting professor in college. Now, mix in a dash of Ewan McGregor. And a beard.