Crush and Be Crushed?

I'm in trouble. I can tell. It could be the feverish effect of the advent of spring, but I can't kid myself. I know spring fever, I love it, I welcome it with open arms, and this feeling isn't it. In spite of my best efforts to distract myself with work, television, and cleaning the house, I can't stop thinking about Steve. I'm in crush territory, and I'm terrified. Because this can only lead to one thing: getting crushed.

The first warning signal came yesterday. After talking to Steve, I dragged my tired ass out of bed and had a scalding hot shower. After washing-slash-burning the previous night's sins right out of my hair, I decided to park my ass on the couch and enjoy the final hours of my extended weekend off with a favourite movie. I popped in Amelie, a beautifully shot, whimsical French film about a lonely young woman who avoids dealing with her messy life by playing do-gooder interloper to those of the people around her. While capable of orchestrating elaborate schemes to ensure others get what they deserve or need, when it comes to her own life our heroine is paralyzed. She uses her strategies to get herself face to face with the man she loves, but confronted with the reality of him, she finds herself unable to act. In the end, of course, they get together, and naturally one assumes they live happily ever after. Saturated with vivid colour, sunshine, and the gorgeousness of Paris, it's the definition of a perfect romantic movie. When it finished, I lay there stroking my cat, a blissful smile on my face, feeling like all was right in the world. My thoughts drifted to Steve. Wondering what he was doing, wondering if he was thinking about me...

Danger! Danger! Thinking about me? Please. Probably thinking I'm obviously a harlot and completely unsuitable boyfriend material... wait a minute, boyfriend? Where did that come from?

The next clue came during a commercial during Prison Break, when, out of nowhere, I started laughing to myself, thinking about how funny it was when Steve called one of the Best Ass contestants David Cross. When my roommate asked what was funny, I found myself telling her about our heckling. And then she gave me this look, a look that said "and the point of that story is?" There was no point, other than wanting to randomly talk about Steve.

And then today I randomly texted Steve some news about Annie's new album that I read on the internet - despite having read an article in this morning's paper about how people are relying way too much on technological communication as a substitute for truly meaningful conversation. And here I thought texting was a cute little way to say "Hey, I thought about you just now." But maybe it's not cute at all. Maybe it's annoying. Maybe it says "I don't like you enough to actually pick up the phone and call you."

The true crush clincher arrived a couple hours later. My phone rang, and my immediate thought was "Is it him?!" followed by heart-descending-into-stomach disappointment when it was someone else. While the phone call was good news - I was asked to do a gig at a club I've never played at before - I hung up feeling shaken and stirred. This won't do. This won't do at all.

The last time I had a crush, I started out feeling safe, confident, and certain that I wasn't rebounding. I got every signal in the book that he was into me: dropping what he was doing to hang out with me immediately, passionate kisses, meeting his friends. But when he wouldn't return my calls for days, I became a total mess. I would obsess about him, wondering if I had done something wrong, and would be on the verge of a complete breakdown. My poor friends had to listen to me irrationally worry for hours, constantly talking me down from the proverbial ledge.

Then he would call and it would be completely fine, and I'd tell myself to not be an idiot, and to not put myself through that again. We were dating. It was perfectly acceptable to not talk every single day, even though as a passionately obsessed Scorpio I wouldn't have minded. And then he wouldn't call, and of course I went bonkers all over again. It was a rollercoaster I kept vowing not to ride, but somwhow I kept finding myself in the front seat, oscillating between wild joyfulness and scared shitless. In the end, it turned out that he really liked me but had so much personal damage to deal with that being in a relationship with me was never going to happen.

I was - surprise! - crushed. Heartbroken. I told myself I would be more careful next time. To give things time, to not let my heart rush into places without my head by it's side. To start behaving like a reasonable adult, instead of like a starstruck teenager. Besides, what the hell is attractive about a lovelorn teenager? Nothing. I distinctly remember being a lovelorn teenager, and it didn't get me anywhere then either. There was Trisha, who I loved for all of fifth and sixth grades, and Erin, who I adored for the seventh. Then there was George, who I lusted after for most of my high school years, and who didn't do me any favours by eventually giving me a blow job and letting me spend the night (though I was understandably ecstatic at the time.) All crushes, all doomed.

I'm asking myself now, have I learned from these experiences? Or am I simply wired this way, doomed to jump on the rollercoaster over and over only to be left in the lurch? Have I grown up enough, at 28, to be able to pursue this potential relationship in a lucid and reasonable fashion, rather than succumbing to unrealistic expectations and overwhelming emotions? Do I even have a choice in the matter? As the lovely Tracey Thorn once sang, I think the heart remains a child.

This is, at the core, simply the fear of another heartbreak, I know. I'm hoping I've reached a place where I'm secure enough to pursue this with confidence without investing too much emotion too soon. But I don't know if I'm there yet, and that scares the shit out of me because the one thing I can say with certainty is this: there's only one way to find out.