Mexico via Manhattan

I logged into my Netflix account to find it suggesting that I rate Restrepo, a documentary I’d recently viewed. Except… I hadn’t viewed it. A little humming bird of confusion fluttered through my brain until I remembered a phone call I’d received from Manhattan. He and his roommate watched a war documentary that he thought was dreadful. The hummingbird came to a rest. I never signed out from Netflix when I visited him earlier this month and they were still using my account to peruse instant viewing. No biggie, just a silly little reminder of him.

It’s funny how people tend to think I’m in a relationship with most of my male friends. I cultivate friendships that span decades and if you’re in my life for more than a few months, chances are we’re going to grow quite close. While visiting Manhattan this last time, a few models came over for a photo shoot. He and I were bantering in that married-50-years way we usually do and they automatically thought we were a couple. There was a time I wanted that with him, but, as with most of my crushes, that time has faded. I enjoy our banter and even our arguments. I love the fact that he can tolerate (and occasionally enjoy) the fact that I’m constantly singing. I love that he forces me to see my talent, even if I shy away from it the moment I escape his presence. I love that he’s not afraid to tell me when I’m being overbearing. I love that he trusts me enough to be open about the challenges of his disability. He’s a fountain of talent that’s barely containable in human form and I just love the hell out of him. But he wants to name his first-born son Ichabod.

No.

"Yeah! Then his sisters will call him Icky!" is his justification.

Oh.god.no.

I don’t know why it is that I so often ask my male friends about baby names. The subject rarely comes up when I find myself among females. I think I just like seeing that guys think about families, too. The Mexican gave me a tour of his dream home. It’s a fixer-upper that his friend recently procured from foreclosure. The house itself has massive potential, but it’s not in a great part of LA. I pointed out the sub-par neighborhood and he replied, "I know. You couldn’t raise a family here."

Call me a sucker, but I love that his mind so frequently goes toward raising a family. It’s not something I’m used to hearing from a man. Combine that with the fact that my ovaries are itching and that crush I was sure had disappeared comes roaring back. We were studying today and when we got to the school cafeteria he took off his hoodie. The way he slowly pulled it off, I felt like I should be searching for singles to slip in his waistband. Like most of the guys that worm their way into my heart, I enjoy the banter he provides. I know him better than he’d like to admit and when I walk into a room I can pick out exactly which girls he’s going to ogle. (I seriously don’t know why he thinks he’s subtle) There was one woman in particular that was sitting two tables away from us. When she finally left he realized he’d been caught looking and he said, "Man, she’s ugly."

"It took you three takes to see that?" I asked, brow arched suspiciously.

"I don’t have my glasses on!" was his defense.

The gal was smokin’ hot so his statement was bologna*, but I appreciated the bit of self-flogging.

I can’t believe I’m back to talking about him. He hasn’t taken up much text in my diary, but outside of OD, he dominates conversation. School, family, The Mexican. Those seem to be my three topics of late. I really thought I was over him, but we started spending a lot of time together and *bam* the stars in my eyes returned. He lacks initiative, but he’s highly trainable. He loves to make me laugh (and he’s very good at it) because he says I laugh like I mean it. Though I don’t share his religious convictions, I think it’s incredibly sexy that he’s deeply religious. I will probably be sent straight to hell for this, but envisioning him in prayer is highly erotic. There’s something about humility, about recognizing that there is something greater than yourself, that makes me swoon. I even love watching him wash dishes. Ludicrous, I know, but when he’s doing something he hates (like dishes or washing his car), he gets really rough and aggressive. Apparently humble aggression is what I go for in a guy?

Oh god, I can’t believe I’m still talking about him. I don’t WANT to be talking about him. I can’t bring myself to believe that things are going to work out between us. Why is it that my friends trust my advice, but when it comes to my own love life my emotional IQ dips into negative integers?