The hottest man I have ever known in real life was my comparative religion professor in college. I have absolutely no idea what I learned from him, though I’m sure he is brilliant, because I was much too busy waiting for him to lick his lips and watching his floppy hair fall effortlessly over his eyes. I must have somehow learned (or imagined) that he lived in NYC and commuted each week up to campus, because my most well-visited fantasy at this time was bumping into this demigod (who I decided was most likely an Upper-West-Side Jew and would therefore fit in perfectly with my family) on the Subway. Sometimes he would be reading a paper on the platform when he would look up and fall in love with me, and sometimes we would both be minding our own business inside the subway when a sudden jolt would catapult me into the Professor’s arms. This was a very strange fantasy for a number of reasons, chiefly because of my hypochondriacal phobia of the subway. In reality I would be so busy sanitizing my hands and attempting to balance without touching a single surface, on high alert listening for any coughs or sneezes, that I would definitely not notice when the world’s most handsome Jew fell into my arms…

In grade school I remember understanding that I was supposed to be attracted to Leo. I accompanied my friends to see Titanic multiple times, I collaged my notebooks with his picture, hung his posters over my bed, but I never felt that fire I was supposed to feel. Obviously the steamy car scene in Titanic elicited some novel feelings in my nether-regions, but that had very little to do with Leo. Secretly, I knew I was drawn to a different kind of man: Robert Downy Jr. in Ally McBeal, Prof. Snape in the movies AND books Colin Firth’s version of Mr. Darcy. Dark, brooding, and just the tiniest bit mean. I’m certain that under those long robes, Snape has some impressive equipment…

To this day, the love interest in any romantic dream I have continues to be my 4th grade crush. For some reason, despite the fact that I am in love with a 4-foot 4th grader, it is not creepy, and I promise it’s not inappropriate. It’s just that I’ve never again found the same level of witty repartee I had with this foxy 9-year-old. I love my husband deeply, but sadly he cannot compete with my 4th grade love.

Published by imworriedmytherapisthatesme

I'm a history-PhD-turned-stay-at-home-mom of three. When I'm not microwaving Trader Joe's meals for my kids, breaking up fights and wiping butts, I like to paint and write. To cope with the endless hours I'm spending with my son doing virtual school, I've abandoned my gouache paints for the more portable, less messy tried but true, paper and ink. While he learns to read to 20 floating heads on his screen, I sit on a tiny chair, at a tiny table pretending to be a productive adult.

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