I'm not crushed

It's finally happened. For one of the few times in my adult life, I don't have one. A crush. An object d'affection. I'm crushless. And I don't like it one little bit.

Why? Do I miss the drama that can accompany a crush? The petty, pointless and slightly perverse sense of betrayal when you realize your crush is a) talking to another girl, b) completely unaware you cut your hair, c) gay?  Nope. But here's what I do miss - the spring in my step, the extra 30 seconds picking out a pretty top, the flirty conversation that makes having to take off volumizing mascara before bed all worth it. I miss having a good reason to reapply my lipgloss after my morning coffee.

There was the guy at the gym. It was over when I finally heard him speak; David Beckham without the accent. The bartender at my favourite bar; I eventually realized he asked everyone if he could get them anything else, not just me.  The guy I worked with; I made out with him. I've had crushes that turned into relationships, relationships that cooled into crushes and, once or twice, crushes that became relationships that became this depressing kind of horny loathing. I also had, once, a crush that turned into Erasure's "A Little Respect" within three songs of me walking into a club (hey, Al the DJ from Scoundrels! How've you been?). But right now, I got nothing. I don't even like George Clooney like I used to.

My last crush ended ugly. Bad day when I realized he wasn't worth the lipgloss. It was like he gave my expectations herpes. And yet, I miss it. Because no matter how old you are, crushes are fun. Sure, they're shallow and quite often on inappropriate people. My male colleagues are trying to figure out if I mean them. For a few of you, yes, I do.  But they make your day a little brighter, your mood a little better, your boobs a little perkier (crushes get the good bras). So step up, gentlemen. Do something to make me crush on you. My good bras are waiting.