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Crushed by desire

February 28, 2013

I’m deeply afraid of commitment. I hate being hit on. Perhaps worst of all for my future love life, I don’t like bodily contact.

None of which stops me from looking. And then staring, jaw wide-open and eyes gaping, like some Warner Bros. cartoon character. All that’s missing is the steam blowing out of my ears and the “HUBBA-HUBBA!” and “AH-OOOOH-GAH!” sound effects.

Nor does it stop the subtle creeping effect of working for two months with, let’s say on a purely hypothetical basis, a fellow ski instructor who has far more athletic ability in his pinky toe than I–er, right, this is purely hypothetical, so you–have in my–er, your–whole body. Then discovering that he has a Facebook profile. And discovering through said profile that he’s single. Then “accidentally” stumbling on his page more and more, even though you can’t woman up enough to friend him, which might allow you to see some of his actual status updates.

And even though I (fuck hypotheses. I was a creative writing major as an undergrad, dammit) have played out the scenarios in my head of my hooking up with this ski instructor, then going out on some actual dates, then getting into serious territory, then fighting about the fact that I don’t want to move in/get married/have kids ever, etc., I still keep stumbling across his page and dreamily imagining what someone with that insane level of athletic ability might be like in bed.

And then as much as I know the fantasy is infinitely better than the reality for containing built-in edit buttons, my resolve begins to crumble, my finger hovers over the “Add friend” button, and I flirt with sending a message along the lines of, “Hey, if you ever want to grab a beer (out of uniform, of course. LOL!) sometime…”

Because even though this is the age of the hook-up and that men are perceived as being more likely than women to want a quality-over-quantity good time with no strings attached and no need to send flowers in the morning, it’s been my experience that this is not actually the case. Guys who were supposed to be one-night stands would text weeks, maybe years later, wanting to meet for coffee or come over to catch up. Sure, the end game was obvious, but I’ve heard of scenarios where a series of end games turned into a protracted game of Life. And unlike the Hasbro version, there’s no cheating. At least, not unless you’re anticipating getting fucked by your soon-to-be-ex’s lawyer without the benefit of Astroglide.

Which means I’m likely to stay in Fantasyland for a long, long time. Everything’s neat, clean, and efficient, and everybody has a huge grin. After all, my only other option for the time being is to start developing more crushes on acquaintances at my other employer, the Colorado Collaborative Divorce Professionals. At the very least, I suppose I could build up a good network in case I ever do decide to take the plunge and add that instructor as a friend, one with benefits as well as detriments.


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