My attraction to Yellow is based purely on looks and familiarity. Yes, motorcycle riding would be fun. Yes, he is a nice person. He is funny. He can be dorky. But he’s not a real dork. He’s the sort of guy who would take me out, but hide me from his friends, cause I’m not the sort of woman he “should” be dating (read, thin blond stewardess. Yes, he once regaled our group with news of a date with a blond stewardess who “wouldn’t stop talking”).
No, I am not batshit-fucking-insane about him. I do not angst over him. He doesn’t read books. He is convienent to sigh over for about four days a month (what would we do the rest of the time?). So, what’s the point? I’m fucking busy, not tossing and turning about him – I know exactly what the sighing’s actually about: he’s the only single guy of about my age and close enough to my type who I actually interact with on a semi-regular basis. He merely looks very pretty today, walking through the office.
I appreciate that.
Ah, hormones. Just that: hormones. Funny, how I still have that little social twinge: no, no, I can’t just be sexually attracted to somebody, I have to pretend I’m romantically crazy about him.
Actually, no. I can appreciate that I’m not nuts about him. He’s just damn pretty.
Social pressures on repressing female desire? If-I’m-hot-on-him-I-have-to-figure-out-how-to-marry-him? When that’s absolutely not what I want at all?
Funny.
