Make Crushes Cool Again

I’ve always had a crush.

Throughout elementary school, I’d cycle through a rotation of the same five boys to have a crush on, depending on if they were in my class or not that year. I remember, in third grade, I watched the school talent show alongside The Boy I Had a Crush On, emphasis on The. We were tragically seldom in the same class and he was the one I talked to the least, yet he was forever the one I liked the most. I came home that day, giddy and flushed because, oh my God, I finally interacted with him for longer than five minutes, and told my mom all about it.

Once I finished my breathless spiel about how we giggled together (nothing really happened, yet the glory of the crush made giggling enough), she gently told me that my headband was upside down and it was probably like that for the entire day. I was so embarrassed, I wanted to die. Did that really matter? Of course not. Did it feel like it did? YES. That’s the nature of childhood crushes; they’re as imaginary as they are consuming. You could be excited, knowing nothing would ever come from it (actually, never considering that as an option), but because of the feeling itself. Simple were the days when interacting with a cute boy was enough.

I had my first crush-turned-boyfriend when I was fourteen. At the time, my understanding of relationships was simple: if two people liked each other at the same time, they should be together. I liked having someone to think about when I listened to love songs. I liked recommending books knowing they’d be read within the month. I did wonder then if I would ever love someone enough to do the same for them. I’m a true believer in the fact that the man should always love the woman more, but I wanted to want to do things more than I, in reality, did. I’d recycle my compliments, calling him understanding and patient. Truthfully, he was patient, waiting for my love to ever equate to his. When we ended our relationship, after I had exhausted his supply of understanding, I possessed an unalterable belief in one thing: I would again have another crush. It felt inevitable, almost like a law of nature.

I guess I never considered that many crushes to follow would be manufactured by a dating app algorithm (and yes, I’ve gone out with friends of friends and it’s been just as bad.) We ask questions devoid of any real meaning to “get to know” one another. Or we ask questions we already know the answer to because, well, it’s on your profile. The getting-to-know-you period is grueling, and sometimes even shatters that pre-conceived projection of your crush. You find out they’re apolitical. Hate cats. Or (double whammy) maybe even both. Maybe they have a girl best friend that they’ve hooked up with once, but it “isn’t that serious,” and having a reaction is “crazy.”

It’s in these moments when the church bells come to an abrupt halt and the wedding board you made on Pinterest exists solely to mock you. (Damn you, satin dresses and square-shaped diamonds.) Yet there’s something simultaneously comforting about having another one bite the dust. You laugh, and now have another dating story for the books. Plus, you didn’t endure any real heartbreak, so you’re unscathed. When you develop a crush that isn’t extinguished by learning more—in fact, it only grows—is when there’s something to be worried about.

Smiling at a notification, incorporating someone into your daily routine, genuine curiosity about what’s made them who they are, a sudden fluency in speaking every love language. It feels like crushes are growing increasingly scarce nowadays. Actual, real crushes. The can’t-sleep kind. Maybe it’s because we know too much now, and it was easier to love the first time when you had never experienced the loss of it. Are we too embarrassed to express interest? Are we too horrified of having our feelings hurt? Will there ever be a day when uttering that you have a crush doesn’t feel like defeat?

Love is inherently embarrassing, and I’ve always believed that, in its purest form, it defies all. I’ve never been a believer in right-person-wrong-time. I think we meet who we’re supposed to when we’re supposed to meet them. What may seem, at first, as right person, wrong time is really just life happening in the way it should. “You can’t miss what’s meant for you,” or whatever they say. It’s funny how we often blame timing instead of the effort someone is willing to give, as if timing is this looming, villainous entity. I’ve believed that there are people I’d probably be better compatible with down the line—when we’re more mature and less susceptible to making naive, regrettable decisions—but we’ll never meet again then. They served their purpose and placed a fragment in the mosaic of me, and that’s enough.

When I was fourteen, it was easier to admit I had a crush. All teenagers are known for having crushes, and how they act in relationships is always endearing and embarrassing because it’s allowed to be. At a certain point, we expect that as we mature, that embarrassing part of us disappears. What we don’t anticipate is the endearing part slipping away with it. It seems like the days of being so unapologetically into someone are over, and the days of caring deeply—as long as no one knows—are among us.

I grew up in a household where love was loud. There was no goodnight that was said without an “I love you” attached to it. Because of this, I love loudly. I use a pink, glittery gel pen to write my name with my crush’s last. I study them like they’re a test I must ace. All of this to say, let yourself have a crush. Make that playlist filled with songs that remind you of them and smile too-widely, even when it feels ridiculous. Watch romance movies and silently hope that your story might feel like that one day. Don’t let the fear of embarrassment confine your heart.

And if that crush crashes, so what? A life half-felt is a life half-lived.

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