Blame It on Estrogen

"A crush cannot endure
the passing of time;
while a friendship
can withstand
the trial
of all seasons."

There's been such a constant spin at work (absolute chaos as they redesign the department space for a week) that I haven't had a minute to write. Which really wouldn't matter because I've not been to the gym and I've not paid attention to the scale (which would potentially mean I'm not obsessed).

The Sagittarian in me wants to run away so badly. And literally. Just take a month's worth of salary, skip town on all the bills, and just keep running.

Aren't you glad I didn't do that? Yet anyway.

However, for a few days now I've had a post written in my head. And now I'm just hoping I can get it out from rattling around up there keeping me from a semblance of sanity. This is another Samantha Jones-type of post so, if you don't want to talk s-e-x, give yourself up to the authorities now, you're anti-human.

Remember on October 8 when I said about my flittering with Mr Molto Bello Italia (MBI), "I figure as long as we keep our passion to Bruce, we're in a safe zone..."

(Yes.)

Remember that lousy movie Blame it on Rio?

(No. Maybe.)

It isn't important. But I'm going to call my little episodic adventure Blame It on Estrogen. Movie to come soon. Wait for it.

What in the hell am I talking about?

Well, try as hard as I could to walk the straight and narrow and keep to the safe side of conversation with a warm, friendly, taken man, I epically failed, and I have the wicked hardest crush on MBI.

Yeah. I'm talking swoon-worthy, butterfly-swirly, ooh-ooh I've got a crush on you please sing some more Bruce Springsteen for me. I tried! I just couldn't help myself, I have no willpower to resist the charming musicians in life! We have so many great commonalities, and a shared sense of humor that transcends language barriers. He's quite possibly the only Springsteen fan my age that I know who loves Bruce more than I do.

Most men can't figure out when a woman is crushing on them, so I don't know what he's thinking. Quite possibly I may have achieved an international stereotype status: Sex-crazed American woman. I have spent my entire life avoiding fitting into types, but I think I've pretty much fallen into one by sheer default. I mean, they don't write songs like "American woman, stay away from me...." without good cause.

I have shared many emotional thoughts with my new friend, including my thoughts about the wedding and my marriage that I shared here with you and got such amazing feedback on (thank you).

Sooooo....on Monday he left me a twitter message that simply said, "I've found you."

My 1st thought: Awww and I've found you (in the universal zen sense).

My 2nd thought one second later: OH....GOD HE.... GOOGLED.... ME. *sucking in for air*

Yes, he's read the blog. And...right now I am glad he found it.

But at the time, when he first mentioned it, in a matter of seconds this "tremendously sexy" American female was instinctively seeking a virtual rock to crawl under. There is no fiction or poetry posted here, just my darkest thoughts.

Unreasonable and unexpected tears streamed down my cheeks even though he didn't say anything bad and had no idea of the effect.

I just sat in front of the computer and tried to recover from my ridiculous freakout party, thrown no doubt by my hormones on overdrive. I'd like to stop being an 18 year old boy please.

My little bubble crush felt like it had burst, and I was standing there in tomato sauce.

He said that my blog "reads like Bridget Jones....." and that I was "obsessed with weight." He was kind about it, not cruel.

At first I said no, I'm just being healthy, but the truth is who am I kidding? I am obsessed, with many things. Weight is one of them. Trying not to be, but I am. It holds the key to my inner happiness.

Even my new friend remarked how sometimes my eyes seem sad. And I know what's missing there. If I can just accomplish some things, like the weight and the book and someone to laugh with and hold me again, I would feel so much better. Ah well, working on a dream.

Anyway, so we have a man around the blog here. He said he would keep reading, so I said I would keep writing. How did the real Carrie Bradshaw's (Candace Bushnell's) friends handle being written about in her real life column?

Well, here's where I want to give a shout out to my new friend; you can say hi to him too:

Ciao Mr Molto Bello Italia! Ciao!

What really really really matters to me, Mr Gypsy Eyes, is that you're someone who brightens my life. Beneath all that crushy stuff I feel, you're REAL.

You're my kind of people. You're my kind of Springsteen fan. You're my kind of friend. Which is rare and high quality.

I don't make friends easily. And I don't want to give that friendship away just because I have not had sex in almost a year. I may be crazy, but I'm not that crazy.

*cringe* Writing it makes it true!?

Anyone want to rent me a date for my birthday? Anyone? Anyone?