Summer Crush

This has nothing to do with Mayville — not really — but I thought I would write about it anyway. I am, after all, the boss of this blog.

Uuugggh. I don’t want to be the boss of anyone or anything. I’m a proud Type B personality. But anyway — seeing as I’m in charge here, I thought I would go ahead and post this.

I have decided, after a couple of weeks of hemming and hawing, to give up on my summer crush. After letting myself spend the business end of May focusing on a teeny-tiny crush I have on a guy I met in 2015 — and whom I’ve rarely spoken to since then — I have decided (nobly, I think!) to give up on him.

I won’t be thinking about him at all. That means that I now have a crush on exactly 0 people. It all feels very freeing — like quitting a job or dropping out of school.

I love to quit! I might take up smoking just to have something else to give up on!

In all seriousness, this is the first of June. I’m sure you’re well aware that June is Pride Month and — though I’m not making any official declarations — I’ve often suspected that I might be on the asexual side of things. I have a romantic side, but I have less interest in the other facets of that arena. It’s not that I’m completely repulsed by the act — it’s more about the fact that I have indifferent feelings about things of that nature.

So I feel like, when I do have a thing for someone, if they miraculously liked me back, then I would actually be cheating them out of the super-sexy mega-hot relationship of their dreams.

In a sense, it was a divine gift to humanity when (1) I was made to be relatively sexless and (2) no one had a crush on me in high school or college. Because of this perfectly balanced equation, zero incels were spawned. Miraculous stuff. Sometimes, though, I wish I were prettier, and that someone will tell me someday that they thought I was slightly cute.

(In my own special way, of course — it would be completely unbelievable if someone called me hot or gorgeous. I’m serving Kentucky, not serving cun—)

Oh, pardon? You don’t think I should use that word on Tipper Gore’s Internet? Hmmmm. Okay. I’ll think about it.

I’m 29 and I’ve never liked anyone. Not … deeply. I’m sure my heart has fluttered, but I’ve never been devoted to one particular person. No one has every really liked me back — or so it seems — which only hurts a little.

Not because I feel lonely, but because it makes me feel like I’m unattractive.

Or, to be perfectly on the level, I should frame it like this: I guess I’ve been liked before, but it’s never been a mutual feeling. Only men I’m not attracted to have approached me. I’ve even been chased off of some social media sites because the most regular replies I got were from persistent, unattractive dud(e)s.

On TikTok — which is my unexpected safe space — my audience is overwhelmingly femme/female. I delight in that, because I rarely get the sexualized messages I’ve seen over on Instagram and Facebook. And I hardly ever check Facebook Messenger anymore — but it always makes me feel funny when I see a handful of messages from over a year ago, from guys who look like they have poor hygiene.

Back in my schooldays, I was never the belle o’ the ball. And I know I’m not completely hideous, but I am unique-looking. I used to think most people didn’t know “what” I am, but most people have correctly guessed that I’m primarily Scottish-American.

I’m actually a blend of things, but I’ll get to that in a minute. For now, if you want to picture me as a grotesque caricature of Merida, then … feel free. It’s not far from the truth.

This is how people see me, even though I have an Irish last name. A very County Mayo sort of name, which reflects that particular bit of my background.

And I’ve got Irish, Finnish, and Andalusian ancestors — and I also have Congolese ancestors, ancestors who I managed to trace back to the colonial era. I’m the product of folks from a variety of backgrounds — and I’m especially proud of my ancestors from the Chesapeake region, ancestors who didn’t want to come here, but who survived in the face of vile mistreatment.

Although all my ancestors have influenced me, to one degree or another, my Scottish ancestors are the ones who people usually identify immediately. They gave me my particularly stereotypical quirks. My auburn-y hair. My sharp tongue. My … unique-looking face.

I really do look Pictish. I don’t mean that in a weird phrenological way. I mean that if I ran around naked, covered in painted-on pictures, people would probably say that they always expected that sort of thing out of me.

I’ve always assumed that most people thought that I was exotic or erotic or something similar, because …

Look. I’ve written about this before on this very blog: people stare at me in public, even when I’m not looking at them.

I’ll feel a pair of eyes on me and, suddenly, I’ll be met with the sharp stare of a slack-jawed local. (I’m also a local. But I’m rarely slack-jawed. I’m usually grinding my teeth in a fit of anxiety.)

Enough about me — back to my crush. I doubt he would’ve been interested, anyway, but I see him out and about from time to time and I still think that he’s a nice young man.

A nice young man who deserves better than me.

Someday, I’ll find my own better half. He’ll make me less Begbie-ish. And less Pictish.

Or more Pictish, if he’s into body paint.