u/Ill_Consequence2577

Infatuation is a tricky thing; particularly when it’s can’t be acted on.

There are perks to be sure. All the swoony longing, the incredible surge of energy (I haven’t been this alert and, paradoxically, distracted in years) that can be redirected into more productive things. And the euphoria, my God, the euphoria! A brief exchange with you buoys my soul in a way few other things currently do.

Of course I’m sure none of this is obvious to anyone else except possibly you. At least I think so. We’re both guilty of stealing glances. I found myself blushing while talking with you a couple months back and I saw your own cheeks redden sympathetically. I have seen you rearrange yourself in a room with purpose so that we have less obstructed views of one another.

So why? WHY? In my experience, infatuation often has multiple origins. Foremost, a limited sample size. Even the simplest person has, conservatively, a few thousand facets. If you’ve been exposed to 11 of them and they’re all delightful, why that must make them perfect!

You are lovely and intelligent and, to the best of my reckoning, kind; however, I also find myself drawn to your more “neutral” charms. You’re always harried, kind of loud, and you eat with unexpected gusto.

There are, too, the facts of my particular age. These are the check-in years, the contemplative years, when one appraises their life and considers what they’ve done, what they regret, what they still want and what they no longer can have. It’s an accounting of all doors and windows, open or shut.

One of the things I’ve been accounting for lately is the realization that I will never have children. This has made women with little ones particularly alluring. It’s a little silly and sad, but there you are.

Then, too,there is the realization of one’s fading youth and crumbling visage. I have never been someone who loves the way the way l look. I’ve certainly never felt attractive enough to lead with it, to think about it as an integral part of my sense of self; however, to realize that whatever store of pulchritude I have (had?) is slipping like chafing sand through my rapidly wizening hands is harder than anticipated. I find myself wanting to be desirable in a way that I haven’t since I was last single. As someone younger and at least a standard deviation (or two) more attractive than me (even when factoring in age) your sneaky attention feels good(Regardless of why—maybe I always have food on my face?)

There’s also, as is so often the case, some mutual resemblance. I don’t mean to insult you with any false equivalency. I am certainly more haggard and older, but there are some curious commonalities.

This is the backstory of my infatuation, but I don’t mean it as an excuse. I’m sure I’d be drawn to you regardless, but I am not available. You are not available. And so we are left with the long tail of, well, longing.

Is that really so bad though? What is life but longing? For people and things and feelings? Anyway, infatuation definitely has a half-life. As the unknown and imagined gives way to the realities of the person, there is the that inevitable realization that everyone is a flawed pain-in-the-ass.

To me that’s the solution: replacing the ideal and imagined with the real stuff. Fantasy with, one hopes, a mutual admiration rooted in a more complete view of each other.

So, friends?