Blue Ribbon Work Crush, Part Three

Three words, “no april fools” and then nothing.

I’d known I had to ask about the “smokes often” of it all. My hope was that it didn’t mean cigarettes, juts weed. IT NEVER MEANS THIS! But he’s my ******work crush****** and so beautiful so I had to at least try. Should I never have matched? Maybe? But I’m glad I did because I like this silly story.

Maybe I was too businesslike or cutesie or boilerplate or presumptuous when I asked him the cigarette question. Or maybe he just smokes, or maybe no answer was my answer for any other reason in the universe! If this were a stranger, I’d have felt pretty neutral about deleting the convo after a few days. Instead, I kind of…strived.

Spring is the perfect excuse to look extra cute, show a little more leg at work than usual. I posted a kind of Feeld-y lingerie pic on my regular dating app profile, hoping that might move the needle. When I wrote the first draft of this paragraph I felt a little judgey towards myself about the picture, but there’s something so tender and sweet about wanting him to just see me. I hope he did see that red lace. I hope he took a screenshot and put it in his hidden folder. Oh and a bad little part of me hopes he shows that hypothetical screenshot to the other guys at work.

The blue ribbon here is really for me, being so totally overflowing with fantasies and, at the same time, almost totally profesh! It’s almost like I have a sense of self-preservation.

The striving went on for a week or so, until one night when I had a beautifully hot hookup with a dreamboat who left a little too quick. That combination of satisfaction and melancholy opened me up enough to get a little bit honest with myself—Blue Ribbon Work Crush was the one I wanted, but he was probably a smoker and DEFINTITELY wasn’t a good texter-backer. I didn’t know what was going on, but I knew it wasn’t what I wanted.

I wrote him a note on our now-feeling-cursed dating app thread. I think it was a pretty good end-of-thread message. I apologized for my maybe-businesslikeness and was maybe a little too flowery about how great I think he is.

“Okay cool, I think you’re a nice person too.”

*dies a thousand deaths*

I’m not sure why it’s so devastating to be called a “nice person” but I hate it SO much. I cried, ended the thread, and realized it was only ever gonna be a flirtation. 

Probably, we're both just flirts! Some days I like thinking over every minute detail of what we say to each other, some days I feel mortified and ashamed if I pay him a little too much attention. Today, I’m tired of it and ready for something real.

But as I’m feeling the loss and muddle and awkwardness and BOREDOM, I also want to acknowledge the everyday gift of what has happened, the free-of-charge joy this not-quite-connection has brought. I liked the cute guy at work! He was attracted to me back! Huzzah! I’m proud to be walking away with a minimum of fraughtness. Learning and growing! I might be getting somewhere.

Perfect Birthday Date with The Shy One, Part Two

(As I sit down to type about this dreamy date, it’s a really, REALLY tough day here in polyland. I don’t think anyone ever died of being left out of a sexy, beachy, play party-y weekend, but it feels like I might.

I usually love my Saturdays to myself, love reading and taking walks and zoning out on my Animal Crossing island. I love listening to Nicole Wallace on a Saturday night to get riled up enough to fold the clothes. But today, nothing’s working. My brain just wants me to think about why they’re there and I’m not, how I’ll never find a real place in his life.)

Filet mignon. Lobster mac and cheese. Wine on my own since he hasn’t been drinking with me lately. Cheesecake with a birthday candle in it. Maybe I am a fancy date girl after all.

It’s strange being in such a wildly romantic context with a guy who doesn’t do PDA. Handholding had to express the whole bouquet of attractions and emotions, it’s pretty intense. We talked and schemed. I made him blush. I love the way his entire face glows when I tease him—the deep-seated smile, the twinkling eyes. Oh, the cheeks. I can’t even with this guy.

On the way home, the driver’s seat was too far back, so my legs wouldn’t fit on my side, they had to spill over onto The Shy One’s feet. Half a cuddle. More hand-holding. I felt swoony even though the music on the radio decidedly wasn’t, felt like I was looking at the moon even though I wasn’t. I closed my eyes and felt his hand softly on my arm. I opened them and saw the city lights, glowing in the twilight, the river reflecting the darkening sky.

Let’s just take a moment to say: I love him. I love him to the moon and streetlights and stars, from the river to the whole entire sea. I love him as sweet as birthday cheesecake and as special as wine. He hasn’t said the love thing yet, though the l-word snuck into a couple of GIFs last week, maybe by accident. But he does the love thing—he is love as a verb. He listens, he pets, he caresses, he reassures. He celebrates. Someday maybe he’ll say the thing, maybe I’ll wait forever. But for now, love as a verb.