good-looking
I imagine how it goes, so I can get the gumption up to kill it.
"I like you," I might say. But that's obvious. Actually, I've already told this guy that I love him, out of hand.
Is that crazy? Is that weird? It seemed opportune, honestly, at the time.
"I have a crush on you." Well, sure. Sure you do. You try to dress and talk and act just like him.
Is that stupid? Is that useless? It seems to serve a sort of beneficial purpose, day to day.
What I hope is that I can tell him, and he can say, okay, cool. Alrighty then. I see where you're coming from.
And then I forget. I have to forget. I've gotta forget all about it, right?
I've gotta go back to the hole where I was, where I never do dream about formalwear and old-fashioneds; where I act according to my own principles, instead of dreaming that I'll be so horribly lonely if I don't just grab somebody close, right now.
Right now. Right now. I'm some thirty miles away, right now.
(I'm not obsessed. I'm not obsessed! I'm just a mess; I'm not obsessed.)
I'm just waiting for an objection. I'm just swinging on a sigh.
I'm just waiting for the return parabola, the end of the thing. I've gotten up to the peak, and all I need now is gravity.
Gravity, which could work itself one of two ways.
Way one, I wriggle my way out of it. I say it, or I don't, but I stow it, lose it, forget his symmetrical face.
There's no procession, from there. It stops. It's over. I go back to needing therapy alone.
Or. Or.
Way two, I wriggle my way into it further. I say it, or he does, and we both abandon being obviously gay for the greater prize of having somebody cool to cuddle with.
There's a long string of steps that might, maybe, be avoided. But it involves Thanksgiving, and Christmas, and holiday concerts. It involves lots of car rides. It involves baking and milkshakes and coffee.
It involves an extensive list of Qualities that Behoove One in One's Middle Life:
You have to smell nice, which can probably be pretty easily accomplished by a basic combination of deodorant and shampoo. Simple stuff.
You have to be able to whistle. This will require chapstick. It goes along with blowing up animal balloons.
Probably, get the tuxedo dry-cleaned - just bite the bullet. Come on, it's so small, you got it so cheap.
(Big guy.)
You need good skin, good teeth, nice hands, nice speech. You've gotta be slow and deliberate, almost theatrical, while you wash your face, floss your teeth, put moisturizer on your elbows. Psoriasis is nobody's fault, but dandruff from your appendages kinda sucks, yeah? Scrub in the CeraVe, down to your chin.
(CeraVe smells yeasty, yeah? Get on it. Bake some bread.)
Focus your retro prog rock knowledge. You can do this. You got it. Already, you do. Good taste in music. Good driving skills, with or without the radio. Listen to your vehicle. Speed along in silence. Pump up your tires, when it says (you know, bare minimum).
You need to exercise, of course. A morning run'll do it, but you have to buy sneakers. You can't fit a treadmill into the attic, and you won't want to. If you're actually in shape, you'll be able to show some sport ability. Does he play tennis? The infatuation in athletic shorts starts to creep back in.
Bite the bullet again, and buy the food so you can get good at cooking. No more dog food lentils from the pressure cooker getting crusty in the front of the fridge. Stay hydrated - just recently, this was aces. Clean it up. Get to it, again.
Also, clean the house. Make your choice, mop or vacuum, but do it, just do it, on schedule. If your attic can look as spiffy as a luxury apartment, then you've obviously got it made in the shade, kid.
Be good with kids. One round of discipline's not gonna hurt you. Kids are forever. You had your chance to be young. Just breathe. Just breathe. Remember your posture, standing or sitting, and breathe.
You want to be fashionable. The layered turtleneck looks good. Get some more, or don't. Make the time for it; flex your sleep. Promise yourself that you'll survive the taxpaying season. If you don't, that's a problem for then, not now.
Maybe I'll even know the answer by then. See what's so exciting about then, not now?
But I want to know now. Of course I would. Of course I want to see if my hunch is really good.
Everyone thinks so. Everyone says, do it. Everyone says, hey, if it's funny, follow through it.
Get the gumption up to kill it. Do it. Go in for the kill.
And in the midst of all of this, you'll find the time to forget why you started. You'll find the peace to be as good as you're getting, and forget about getting in good.
Forget. Forget. Forgive yourself, as well. Understand that you can't undo it. Understand that it's the sharing of smile, most of all.
Maybe ice cream. Maybe Star Trek. Maybe chamber music. Maybe chill. Colloquially, it's hanging out. It's hanging out with an attractive person.
A good-looking person, sure. But more than that, a person that's good, and looks and seeks and finds and celebrates.
Don't you wanna be with an attractive person?
Don't you wanna be an attractive person?
Don't you wanna be good-looking?
You can't change it, now. You don't want to. You just want to see - see what he sees. You want to see if the promise is real. You want to see if your cave carving has a shadow that the sunshine will wink upon, when it's got the free time to give it a glance.
Just one look. Just one look.
I'll stop staring, I promise. I promise. Just give me one good look.