I would like to take my hat off (and hell, while I’m at it maybe my pants off) to the manufacturer of one Mr. James Dean, Mr. Italian GQ, Mr. Hugh Jackman’s younger brother, Mr. oh-my-fucking-god-you-take-my-breath-away. You done good. I didn’t know men were built this way. So much care you took on this model! Bra-vo. I give it a five out of five. Two thumbs up—-waaaaay up. Standing ovation. Best in show. Yeah, yeah, all that. You done goooood.

Duuuuude, I totally get that a few months in CHEMISTRY IS USUALLY A BLARING. I think there are like four maybe five spikes in “happy hormones,” which make us all (in turn) gooey and drooley and oh my goodness this person is my f-ing DESTINY-eeee—in the beginning. And maybe that is what is happening… and maybe it’s just that we have LIFE-BLOWING chemistry… and maybe it’s just that he is the most physically attractive male I have ever seen IRL. But I’m starting to think there may be a little bit-o LOVE a bloomin’. (holyfuckingshitholyfuckingshitHOLYFUCKINGSHIT!). Love or adoration? Love or gratitude? Love or evolution inspiration? Love or connectedness? Love or… ummm…yeah, love. Happy face. Freaked out face. Addicted face. Wanna let him in face. Wanna fall face. Falling face.

Here where some of the not-so-original, let me rant about how great this man is, crapola comes out- IN FULL FORCE. May I get you a cheese plate anyone? Anyone?

What I love is in the details—in the way that he looks at me, REALLY LOOKS AT ME. Right eye, left eye, back, and forth, in and out. Sucking in the details. Worshiping my every bit. (How’d he learn how to do that? I’ve never been ABSORBED that way before…).  In the way that he occupies his space socially, personally. Likes he owns the joint, BUT DOESN’T WANT ANYONE TO KNOW IT. (Is THIS a genuine alpha male??). Like he is comfortable enough in himself that he doesn’t need to BUILD himself in public. Like he is there to showcase me—and loves every second. In the way that he tends to my every fleeting need/desire/preference. Like he was made to and finds no bigger pleasure than in pleasing me. Like he cares more about making me happy than anything else. In the way that he gets me, and knows when to listen, when to kiss me (and where! Swoon…), and when to tell me that I am full of shit and need to check myself. (WTF? I mean, c’mon… did somebody give him a cheat-sheet full of TO-DO/under no circumstances do’s??? Fess up, people…). In the way that he finds me… under all my pretending, under makeup and mishaps. In his dedicated investigation of WHO I AM. In his obvious reverence for each discovery. In his willingness to RISK his heart on a girl who he knows is still a shit-show. In his readiness to fall. And his unwillingness to look back in doubt.

Grocery list aside… it’s just a FEELING. Scared, I-am-I-am, of feeling based anything. But this is a feeling. Like maybe he’s worth diving for. Like maybe the other shoe won’t drop. Like maybe he will actually restore my faith in love-ish-ness, in romance, in meant-to-be’s, in ALL THAT JAZZZZZZZZZZ. Like maybe this one is the real thing? The good fit. The better-together. The… dare I say it….? Gulp. The TIMES TWO?

Holy shit. 40% of me is panicking. I don’t wanna end up in crumbles over this boy once he finds out how truly idiosyncratic, bizarre, f-ing torn up and scarred I am. This part would rather SLAM! the OFF button now, before it’s too late and my mind is sprinting, net in hand, after my crazed heart.  But that 40% is ticking slowly downward (39%…….38%……..37%……). Day by day. Surprising by refreshing, who knew that men could behave, think, believe this way moments. Confidence is rising, tip-toeing to the edge…one painted toe at a time. Preparing for the plunge, the downward spiral(?), the upward climb(?), the free-fall(?)…. THE WINGED FLIGHT.

I think I might be ready. I feel I might be willing. To think, I feel, I love.