I have always been “boy crazy”. Not in a slutty way though. No, no, no. Being slutty would require a level of bravery around guys that I just didn’t have. My boy craziness simply means that I can’t recall a time when I didn’t have a crush on someone. I’ve always appreciated the cuteness of the men-folk.
Being a shy, boy-crazy teenager meant that I became very comfortable with the nausea and dizziness that came with being around a boy I had determined was out of my league. I’d become super self-conscious and get really hot and then start sweating. Oh, dear. The sweating. I hated the sweating. I even went to the doctor once due to the sweating because I was sure there was a sprinkler system implanted in my arm pits. He gave me a prescription strength deodorant that worked well enough. Funny thing is that once I grew a self-esteem my pit stains magically disappeared.
Cute boys. I enjoyed them from afar, but being within a 10 feet radius sent me into a biological tizzy. And do I need to even describe the speeches that went on inside of boy-crazy Marie’s head?
Can he tell I like him? If you quit staring at him then he won’t know. Quit staring. Marie McKinney, quit staring at that fine specimen of teenage hunkalicious love. Oh, why doesn’t he like me? My life sucks. Wait. I think he looked at me. Does he like me? I think he likes me! Oh my gosh. Are we dating now? Is that what that look means? Gosh, am I ready to settle down? I am just a sophomore. He sure is dreamy.
Unlike the sweating, I never got over the internal monologues. Even going to the John Mayer concert a few months ago sent me into a debate about whether I should smile a little bigger when he looked towards our side of the stadium because you never know, right?
So imagine my surprise when I walk into Baskin Robbins last week and behind the counter was Jake Gyllenhaal’s clone.
He was probably 19 or 20 years old and one of the sweetest Baskin Robbins employees I’ve ever encountered. He was polite and patient and had such a sweet smile. And his cuteness was so off the charts that if 15 year old Marie walked in and saw this fine specimen of hunkdom I would put money on it that she would have turned around and walked right back out of the store. And then gone home to throw her shirt in the dryer because it would have been soaked.
But none of that happened. Instead this is how my internal monologue went…
He is such a handsome young man! His eyes are so blue. I hope my kid has blue eyes. Oh, and he’s so polite! He just called me ma’am! His mother must be so proud. I feel like I should let him know that he is just…just absolutely adorable. What an adorable young man. I wonder if he has a girlfriend. Him and Melissa would be so cute.
I didn’t think much about the change in my internal monologue until I got back to my car and it hit me like a ton of past their prime bricks:
I. am. old.
Not “I need botox” old, but “Are you my Aunt Edna?” old. People, it took mental coaching to not reach up and pinch Jake Gyllenhaal Clone’s cheeks!
The only good thing about crossing over to the proverbial Other Side is that I am finally cured of my boy craziness.
Unless John Mayer is in the room, of course.