Recently someone asked me, with some degree of puzzlement, if I have ever experienced unrequited love.
I laughed and replied of course not.
Nothing is impossible, but I doubt that I ever will. Doing so would not be efficient.
Another night I was talking to a different person about similar topics (conversations with me veer around a bit, but can generally be described as investigative journalism) and I flourished one of my favorite old talking points, never once disputed: that nobody has ever had a crush on me, because (goes my logic) nobody has ever confessed such a thing. Much to my surprise the person I was talking to looked mildly dismayed and said But I have a crush on you, Bee. A friend crush.
I furrowed my brow and demanded to know why this would be so. In detail. Which of course I failed to remember, but the larger point did stick in my mind. Perhaps I think that I’ve never had a crush on anyone because my definition is flawed.
Because, if a crush is defined as a flush of raw energy and instant attraction, I experience it routinely. That is the zap I often get from friendship, which for me is a very cerebral and endlessly entertaining experience. And, although my friends are often crazy, dangerous, needy, broken, or sinister, I love them. In fact, if I am being honest, my friends have broken my heart — and I expect they will continue to do so. Friendship is an imperfect vessel for intimacy.
The other kind of crush still strikes me as perplexing, and will require further pondering.
I suppose that I would be a happier person if I had figured all this out in my murky youth. But then again, maybe not.