There’s this guy who is a stranger, but maybe less of a stranger than strangers usually are. He is an acquaintance. A friend of a friend, if you will. And maybe that is closer than stranger territory, but the fact that I don’t know him very well counts for something.
It feels strange to write this column about someone who could potentially read it. Well, he probably won’t read it. But he might. And if he does read this, it has the potential to make things awkward.
But it also has the potential to be endearing. And, regardless, he is practically a stranger, so maybe nothing would change at all. And, knowing me, he probably has no idea that I would think twice about writing a column about him. I’m very inconspicuous.
Truthfully, I’ve always been the kind of girl who would write a column about a guy she barely knows. I’ve always been the kind of girl to like a guy’s smile and then want to know what his middle name is. It is my nature. I blame it on watching thousands of rom-coms with my grandma growing up.
I’m like a rom-com encyclopedia now. Friends ask me for rom-com recommendations based on their personalities. I have a pretty high approval rating, thank you very much.
Maybe that made you think that this guy is not particularly special. Oh, she’s a hopeless romantic and this is just some guy that told her something nice once. Well color me impressed, you’ve hit the nail right on the head. But maybe this guy is special, how would I know?
I already told you, he’s practically a stranger. I would love to reveal the information I know about him that would lead me to writing a whole column in his honor, but what good would that do? Other than heighten the stakes for me?
Here’s all I can say (and mostly all of what I know):
He reads.
He has nice eyes.
He doesn’t dress too well, but I’m no fashion designer, either (in reality I dress really well, but
I’m trying to give him the benefit of the doubt because I’m a saint or something).
He thinks I’m funny (I think).
He seems like a kinder person than me (for example, I doubt he would ever call himself a saint).
That pretty much exhausts the list. I would love to disclose the little more I have on this guy, but, as aforementioned, I don’t trust you guys as far as I could throw you. Sorry, that was mean. I don’t really mean that.
Okay, don’t turn on me now, guys. I trust you! I have a point here! At least I think I do… let me figure it out.
I barely know this guy, right? It’s easy to romanticize someone you don’t know. You don’t know their quirks, or the way their breath smells in the morning, or if they have some playlist that you really wish you never saw. But, honestly, I think it says something that I can be so infatuated with this guy I barely know — to the point that I would dedicate a whole 800 words to him.
I mean, if I can put down this much stuff about how the butterflies feel, think of all the things I could write about the people who I actually love in my life.
If I can write about how much I like the fact that this guy — this random guy — reads, I could write an entire book on how smart my friends are and how they’ve helped me understand the differences between acetaminophen and ibuprofen, and what buying low and selling high really means.
If I can write a sentence on how he (might) think I’m funny, I would need all the paper in the world to describe how much joy being around my family brings me and how “silly dancing” with my dad has me doubled over, laughing in seconds.
If I can write a paragraph on how he seems kinder than me, it would probably never equate to all the thank you letters I could write to the old man on my street for always telling me to have a great day. Yes, I consider this old man a loved one.
So, yeah, I guess I found my point. I have a dumb crush on a boy, but if I can feel so strongly about this — which is based on next to nothing — then I guess that says something about my capacity to love.
I hope you guys crush this hard. I hope your crushes make you listen to love songs and smell the crisp fall air and blah, blah, blah. You know, “Blah, Blah, Blah”? The “Etc.” of sappy love stuff.
Crushing hard is a great feeling. And it probably trains you for the real thing. But, anyways, how would I know? I’m no love-specialist. I’m just a saint or something.
