CRUSH OR CRUSHED?

A month ago, I read a post on This Gay Relationship about first crushes. An entertaining read. I moved on.

But something lingered. When was my last crush? Can't recall. I also don't remember the last time I had a case of the hiccups. Maybe some things disappear when you hit manopause.

The ex-gay movement would jump all over the fact that my first crushes were women. There was perky/cutesy/funny "That Girl" Marlo Thomas (with a deep, raspy voice), sweet-voiced Karen Carpenter and all-out sexy Daphne of Scooby Doo fame. (On second thought, I don't think that gives the ex-gays anything to go on.)

The way I blathered on, Olivia Newton-John and I could have been something. (Oh, Sandy, it was me, not Danny, you were hopelessly devoted to, right?)

But then I started to become a little too fixated on The Hardy Boys. Not the books (okay reads, but no need to read the whole series), but the TV show. And not Shaun "Hey Deanie" Cassidy, but Parker Stevenson. Oh, that hair! (Justin Bieber, this is how you work a brush and a dryer!) Around that time Andy Gibb just wanted to be my everything. Yep, more hair. Later, I later crushed on Billy Campbell, Timothy Daly and that guy from "The Nanny" You can see why I'm so excited that big hair is back.

Celebrity crushes are always amusing...and harmless. Sure, I'd suffered through too many half hours of listening to Fran Drescher's grating voice but it was surface irritation at best. Real life crushes can be more exhilarating and more, well, crushing.

One reason I may be single is that I cannot communicate with someone to whom I'm attracted. That may be chuckle-smile funny in the sitcom world, but it's rather stupid and completely nonproductive in life. Can I flirt? No. Can I make eye contact? Not a chance. To look and be spurned or entirely ignored,...I've rarely allowed myself to risk it. Apparently, a guy must read my telepathic messages.

In the last two weeks, I've glimpsed two crushes I had from when I moved to Vancouver in the mid-'90s. The first was a hairdresser--go figure--who worked at a trendy salon on Granville. I went to him for months, sweating in the swivel chair and pretending it was the cut I was sneaking glimpses of in the mirror. Finally, I called him at work one day, keeping a towel by my side to blot the outpouring of nervousness. I did it. I asked him out. And he sweetly shot me down. I was absolutely crushed. I had to switch hairstylists. The humiliation was too great.

As I passed him on the street on my way to IGA, I could tell he remembered me. Probably not my name, but recognition enough. His mouth dropped oh so slightly. Yes, he hasn't aged well and I still frequently get "you look the same" (big hair and all). It was a satisfying moment.

The second crush was a guy who worked out at Denman Fitness, my old gym. For six months, I dared to try making sneak peeks. While I had nothing to show for all my reps on the bicep curls, I managed to build up my glancing stamina, enough so to catch him smiling that gorgeous smile my way. I think my return smiles hit my shoes most of the time.

On the evening before I was to head off on an extended six-week vacation, a mutual friend, tired of all my drooling and pining, stopped the guy on the street and asked if he'd go out with me. Embarrassing, yes. But it worked! Too bad the date couldn't happen right away. I had more time to dream unrealistically about my potential soulmate.

We did go out upon my return on the Thursday before Labor Day. And the date went well. We agreed to meet up for tennis on Labor Day Monday. Alas, he never called. I checked that phone dozens of times. Yes, it was plugged in. Yes, there was a dial tone. I later learned that my Prince Charming went to a circuit party that weekend and fell in lust with a party boy from Chicago.

All that time. All that hoping. I could only take solace with the aid of an old crush.

I'd long forgotten my circuit-boy-tainted man, but then a guy on this season of "The Bachelorette" held an uncanny resemblance. I knew that smile, that hair, those eyes. And I gasped when a photo of my big gay crush appeared in the business section of The Vancouver Sun. He'd been promoted to vice president of something or other. Alas, he still looked fine. Another slap from a crush from the past.

No more crushes? Maybe that's a good thing. (Maybe I should've stuck with Daphne.)