The Mohair Sweater

I actually had about half this post typed out, and then my computer refreshed itself. I wonder if that is the gods way of telling me not post this, but whatever. Here goes again:

I have wanted to make posts like this in the past, but then decide against it, allowing that little nagging voice in my head to win out--the one that says "But what if the person you are writing about ends up reading this?"

I seriously contemplated this last night, though, and realized the absurdity of that sentiment for a few reasons; first, only my friends (semi?)regularly read this, and second, my blog isn't linked to my facebook. I only occasionally put the link in my away messages on AIM. Basically, for one of the people I write about to read this means that there is some serious stalking going on (although, I would probably be flattered. But I digress.) So that was my rationalization, or my disclaimer before I continue with the story I want to tell.

Last night, Sarah and I attended Mass. We work on a cycle that roughly spans a month--we go one week, then feel that going one week counts for the following week as well, then one of us feels guilty so one or both of us attend the next week, and then the guilt reaches a breaking point and we both go. Usually I dress a little better than usual; dress pants instead of jeans, or heals instead of sneakers. Yesterday was laundry day, though, so I just went in whatever schlepy (is that spelt right, A?) clothes I happen to be wearing. There's no real excuse for my unmade up face and dirty hair.

It turns out the Bishop was saying Mass last night. During his homily, I couldn't help it, my mind drifted. I started looking around at our fellow church-goers, when someone caught my attention. The guy sitting only two pews in front of us looked oddly familiar, especially considering I was only looking at the back of his head. I knew that back, though. He turned, and my heart started to pound. It was the same guy that I've had an inexplicable crush on for over a year. I feel like such a 12 year old when I talk about him, because I really don't know him at all. The few times we have spoken, I have managed to be at the peak of my awkwardness and say things that instantly make me want to smack myself. I have no reason to like him the way I do, but preteen style, my heart starts pounding and my tongue gets tied every time I see him.

While that may have sounded cutesy, just so you know for sure that it is in fact me writing this, I can also tell you that I became a tad upset. Church was the one place left where I could tame my normally vulgar, teenage-boy thoughts. Not last night!

I've rambled to anybody who will listen about my little encounter. We said hi during the sign of peace, and at the end of Mass he said bye (and I responded by saying hi again. Gah.) When I told my mom this story, she told me once again about the big crush of her life, the boy in the mohair sweater. When she was a freshman in high school, there was a boy in her math class who she still believes was quite possibly 20 years old. He couldn't graduate because he kept failing math. He wore a mohair sweater all the time, and my mom is also pretty sure that he didn't even know she existed. I'm not sure how this story is supposed to make me feel; I guess I have my own version of the boy in the mohair sweater. I just wish that my version can have some fantastic romantic ending instead of "he either dropped out or they finally just let him graduate."