Why Hormones Are Such Terrible Things

I will never forget the first time I laid eyes on the man who would, as it turns out, be the one to drive me completely insane. It started harmlessly enough. I walked into an unfamiliar house and he was there, sitting on the couch. He smiled a magnetic smile and introduced himself. At that point, I realized it was all over. The torment began. I would never be the same.

First off, let me set the record straight. I am not a romantic, let alone a hopeless one. I do not swoon. I do not watch chick flicks. I do not lie awake at night wistfully listening to love songs. I definitely do not enjoy reading silly teenage vampire romance books. I like my music danceable, my movies bloody, and my demeanor funny yet aloof. When my curiosity led me to read said vampire romance novels, I was appalled at the fact that the main couple's "love" is based solely on physical attraction in one way or another.

That is why there is a huge conflict set up in my mind regarding my feelings in this particular situation. Suddenly I have reverted back to my 13-year-old self. I might as well be wearing Powerpuff Girl tank tops and Bonne Bell lip gloss and listening to Irish pop music. Oddly, I think then I might be saner than I am now.

Take, for example, my biggest source of embarrassment. I have regrettably learned over the last two years that I have a major blushing problem. Any time I speak in class I turn bright red. If I get angry, I turn bright red. If I hear good news, I turn bright red. If I exert myself physically, I turn bright red. If I am embarrassed...well, I guess blushing in that situation is a little more normal. The point is, however, that any emotional agitation I feel causes the capillaries all over my face to swell with blood, flare out and turn me into a veritable tomato.

Now imagine my face every time I run into the object of my desires. It is humiliating. How does one explain that? "Oh, my face gets red every time I see you? Maybe it's allergies," or, "What are you talking about? I'm always this color. Have you ever seen me any other color? Exactly," or, "I know it's only 11 a.m., but I felt like getting started early on tonight's drinking binge. Want to come?"

Naturally, I just avoid it and pretend it's not happening. Last time I saw him he had an exceptionally large smile on his face and looked positively radiant. I can't decide if he was just very happy to see me or if he was taking great amusement in the fact that he has an inexplicable power over my blood vessels.

Also regarding the last time I saw him, I'm not quite sure what happened to me in the communication department. We discussed English subjects after I had walked out of linguistics class. He explained that he much preferred literature to the study of the language itself. What I meant to say was a graceful, elegant and mirthful phrase such as, "Oh, I prefer language studies, darling. Sadly, I personally read very slowly so literature classes are out unless necessary. How fascinating diversity is!" Unfortunately, it came out more like, "Oh really? I suck at literature. This is me in literature," and then I inserted some indecipherable hand motions that may or may not have conveyed the idea that I read slowly with somewhat poor comprehension. Once again, my brain had failed me, just like any time I tried to give him a compliment but ended up tripping over my own tongue. If tripping over one's own tongue sounds impossible, you should just watch me sometime.

There was, of course, the first memorable time that I felt stupid around him. We were in his car singing a duet by a band that we both liked, and he turned to me and said, "By the way, I think you have a very pretty voice, Cynthia." The ever present blush appeared on my face in its most viciously dark form. My response was, "Thanks. I think you have a...cool...voice...too." Inside, I had my face planted firmly against the palm of my hand. What kind of a response is that to a compliment? It's times like that that you become strikingly aware of just how permanently words can stick, if only in your own head to taunt you.

The paranoia of being ditsy has driven me partially crazy. If I think I'm going to run into him, I try to recite a mantra of, "I'm cool, I'm cool, I'm cool," which of course makes me just the opposite and probably causes people to give me very strange looks in the hallway.

In situations in which I'm trying to force myself not to react stupidly -- these attempts are rarely successful -- I start trying to rationalize the whole thing as well. Why do I feel the way I do? I came up with several answers. He is ridiculously pretty was the first one that came to mind, which made me ashamed of myself. What else? We've have sing-alongs to obscure bands that few other people in this part of the country would know. We have fun, drunken nights, assuming that we ever actually hang out. I can talk to him about basically anything, depending on how much alcohol I have in my system at the time. Did I mention that he is very pretty?

I have yet to find an explanation that has a firm basis in anything substantial. All I have been able to determine is that I am no better than that fictional teenage girl I loathe so much who fell for the vampire for no real reason -- shallow, stupid and completely irrational. It can't be love; it must be infatuation of some sort. I know this in my brain and I have more or less come to accept it. It is confusing, though, because I never could have imagined that anything less than love could be quite this difficult or torturous.

If nothing else, this shameless display of vulnerability and a lack of control is a humbling experience. Though I wouldn't say that I am showing the real me -- rather a stumbling and possibly mentally disabled version of the real me -- at least I know that it is possible for me to feel so extremely and not be able to explain why. It is kind of a novel idea and, in a way, I kind of feel proud to experience such a unique sensation. That doesn't make the situations any less painful, but at least I know that, in ten years when I am finally (maybe) over him, I can look back and laugh, with maybe only a hint of a blush on my face.