Crushing Krisis

Comic Books, Drag Race, & Life in New Zealand

flirt

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Recently I’ve had a couple of people tell me that you start to feel old when one of your exes gets married. Of course, I really only have the one ex, and we all more or less lovingly refer to her as the Queen of Darkness, so that particular trauma has already passed for me. I didn’t feel old, though – I think she had been betrothed to the dark side even before she started seeing me.

I guess the thing that makes you feel old when a former significant other ties the knot is that you could have, theoretically, stayed with that person, forcing them to wind up knotting with you rather than some other person. Instead, not only have they successfully replaced you (with their spouse), they are several spins ahead of you in the game of Life.

Despite not having an ex for this to happen to, this weekend someone told me something that still managed to make me feel old in that same way – only a little bit different. Because, you see, I found out that a girl who I had never even kissed got married.

Of course, if I was counting the social evolution of every girl I ever had a crush on but never kissed against my own I would have to have some sort of leader board hung in my room to keep track of it all. In fact, this girl is a little bit different because I could have kissed her. I really almost did – as I remember it, we were all lined up for the moment, lips aimed and everything. We didn’t kiss, though. I didn’t kiss her because she was seeing a very nice boy who she seemed to like a lot, and I didn’t want to make myself a chink in their relationship’s armor.

I didn’t kiss her, even though I wanted to, and wound up thinking about it for the rest of the week, hovering by my computer in case she sent me a message of any kind. I’ve talked to her since, hugged and laughed with her, slept on her couch, and rode in her car.

I haven’t heard from her lately, though; we haven’t spoken in months. But, this weekend at our (yet-to-be-blogged-about) cast party, a friend of hers who was in town stopped by to say hello, and she off-handedly informed me that this girl, who I never even kissed, got married. Married to the boy that kept me from kissing her.

It’s not quite the same feeling of being old. Instead, as her friend’s words reached my ears, they manifested as a strange quiver in my stomach. Something about fate? Or karma? Would that kiss have made a difference? Would she have really kissed me if I had leaned in? Would I have been a bad person for doing it? Could it have ever even happened In the first place? Would I be who I am today if it had?

I really ought to save the tough questions until after lunch, huh?

https://www.crushingkrisis.com/2003/05/200321905/

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Kitschy retro diners are supposed to make you feel as though you have stepped away from the outer world and into the protective womb of the fifties. All the counters are clean, all the waitresses wear white, and all the food is decidedly nationalistic — with only slight nods to South of the Border Sauce to even remind you of the global complexities that await outside after you pay the balance of your check.

Today, sitting alone at an empty counter, i found myself wondering how strict a typical retro diner is with its staff about anachronisms. To my recollection i have never been served onion rings in such a fine establishment by anyone wearing a digital watch, but not all potentially meal-spoiling anachronisms are so conveniently dated. What about hair scrunchies?, i mused. And, at that point at a loss for some other easily identifiable item, or breast augmentation? Before i could get too involved in that particular arm of speculation my waitress arrived with a menu and, to my unending delight, bobby pins holding her hair back.

As she handed me my menu i thought that i am never quite sure what to think of my physical appearance, which i described just last night as “androgynously timeless.” Still, today i am surely at my best: just enough stubble to suggest i might not be in high school, bangs carefully crafted with a sticky mess of pomade, wool scarf wrapped around my neck. I never expect anyone to notice me, though; i am typically a cypher on a crowded street, slipping through a crowd while remaining completely unremarked on.

My waitress commenced flirting with me shortly after i informed her that i was trying to decide if i was hungry enough to have something beyond my initial order of rings. Her hair was auburn and pulled back by the aforementioned bobbies, leaving only a few escaped crinkles to frame a face set with remarkably blue eyes. Actually, the flirting coincided exactly with my first free refill of lemonade, which by rights should have cost me a dollar sixty-nine.

The subtle irony of her name being Laurel did not escape me.

I, of course, am oblivious to flirting even when aware of it, if that makes any sense at all. Eventually Laurel coaxed an order out of me, and by the time she disappeared to put in a request for Smokehouse Turkey Burger i had finally caught on. Back she came, burger in hand. She smiled. As i ate i listened to her talk to a co-worker about how she needed off on Friday because her roommate was in a show, and she had promised months ago to attend but had then totally forgotten. She intermittently peeked over her shoulder at the fryer, idly drumming her fingers on the counter if she felt as if it was taking too long.

I decided the cut of her khakis could not have existed before the seventies, though i have no ideas about the origin of the style of underwear which non-too-quietly broadcasted itself through said pants. She came by to give me my fourth free lemonade refill and asked me if everything was okay, and i quickly gulped down my food to reply. “Yes. You could bring a check,” which came off as very charming, i’m sure.

As i came within three bites of finishing my burger i wistfully glanced out the window at the bustle of South Street, trying to imagine the stores that would have dotted its sidewalks fifty years ago. I can already tell that i will be one of those old people that talks about how different things were when i was young because i do it already and, i suppose in connection to that, i am fascinated by the idea of Philadelphia as it was decades ago. The buildings, the cars, the fashion, the people.

As much as i might like to pretend, we had no place there: me with my headphones draped around my neck and her with those bothersome khaki pants. Unable to find a way around my unsuspended disbelief and into the background of a scene from Dobie Gillis, i decided to leave. Laurel deserved twenty percent, if not for the pleasant flirting then for the seven dollars of free lemonade, and i found that my wallet contained exactly one hundred and twenty percent of the bill — down to the last cent. I placed it on the counter, neatly folded on top of a clean napkin, and left without a word.

https://www.crushingkrisis.com/2003/01/90220367/

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Standing at the deli counter in the middle of Ft. Lauderdale on Christmas Eve wearing board shorts and a bright orange t-shirt that i had inadvertently shrunk to a prepubescent size in the wash, it occurred to me immediately that the striking blond man with the “Got Lube?” shirt was going to hit on me. I just knew. It was like a sign from god.

Christmas in Florida was absolutely bizarre, to say the least. At three in the afternoon on C-day i found myself firmly planted on my grandmother’s couch eating bonbons while attentively viewing the Trading Spaces Marathon while my mother lounged out by the pool. I eventually walked down the hall to the condominium of my retired lesbian 2nd-cousins to borrow a deck of cards, and proceeded to play solitaire.

Those two incidents pretty much sum up my trip to Florida, aside from how my mother was flagged down at the airport and — after an extensive search of her person and property — was forced to discard her “bang’s scissors.” Which, honestly, she was more likely to kill someone with in Florida than she was on the way back from it, but safety regulations are safety regulations for a reason.

Happy New Year.

https://www.crushingkrisis.com/2003/01/390155447/

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Girl… making… head… explode… slowly.


Actually, the slow explosion of my head isn’t such a bad thing. And, dude, self-aware witty girls who are as confused as i am about romance in general and the romance in question in specific are alright in my book, especially when we meta-flirt for two hours while figuring out our battle plan.

What, me, sleep? Butterflies in stomach totally refuel me without a need to rest, didn’t you know?

https://www.crushingkrisis.com/2002/02/9572545/

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Cast Parties are always an experience that involve nearly as much drama as the show they are celebrating, and last night wasn’t an exception. What was an exception was that i didn’t drink; i’ve never drank at a winter show party, and decided to turn the trend into a tradition. It was interesting, if only because everyone finally got the point that i am really a fucking lunatic whether or not i’ve got a couple of drinks in me. There was simulated sex with multiple cast members. There was a contest to see who could grab the most genitalia, both male and female. There was me singing along and bopping around to the entire Immaculate Collection.


Oh, and i might have attempted to kiss someone.

When i’m drunk i flirt, but i’m usually doing it in a generic drunken way. Being sober, last night i was flirting with some amount of purpose. And, oddly enough, i was being flirted back at. I still don’t quite understand what was going on, personally, but apparently Laurel knows the whole story and will explain it to me before the show tonight.

See, i’m a stupid fucking lunatic who can’t even manage to lean in for a kiss whether i’m sober or trashed. Don’t you love the consistency?

https://www.crushingkrisis.com/2002/02/9552150/