Love Awkwardness in an Elevator

First of all, let me just say that it smells like pot in my apartment. That's what you get for leaving your windows open in South Central. We're living in close quarters here, people. Try edibles instead. It would be sweet if it smelled like brownies...

Anyway, what I really want to discuss today is the fact that even though I'm about to turn 23, at heart I am still a 12 year old girl who blushes at the drop of a fedora. I thought I had gotten over my schoolgirl inability to even talk to boys, much less flirt with them. But apparently, where pretty man candies are concerned, I might as well be covered in acne, sporting holiday-themed braces, and wearing ratty sweatshirts with ill-fitting high-waters (essentially me in middle school).

The object of my (minor) obsession in question, I cannot actually name for professional reasons. So I shall give him a code name (also reminiscent of middle school. very useful if you want to gush about boys without others knowing who you're talking about). I shall dub said man candy, Rudy, short for Rudolph Valentino.

Today was the first day I rode the elevator with Rudy. Prior to this, I had only drooled from afar, casting furtive, lascivious glances on the rare occasions I caught a glimpse of the Greek god in business casual. The elevator was crowded and I stood merely inches from the back of his head. All I could think was how much I wanted to jump him, but restrained myself by saying "Easy, girl," under my breath.

We got up to the 8th floor (my office is on the 9th) when Rudy turned to me and said "Hi, how's it going?" Perfectly friendly, civil small talk. It seemed even more mundane coming from a face like that. I replied, "Good, how are you?" Only my voice resembled Britney from Alvin and the Chipmunks. Despite the innocuous nature of the exchange, my face bloomed like an heirloom tomato. Thank the lord for the somewhat masking powers of low-watt elevator lighting. Not very flattering, but at least it doesn't highlight your face's betrayal of your pattering heart. Hopefully it also hid the breakout on my chin, the frizz in my hair, and the burn on my forehead from a run-in with an In-Styler earlier that week. Not bloody likely.

For the next floor we stood in awkward silence. I willed myself to be the charming, alluring mademoiselle I know is in there somewhere. But the only words that popped into my head were along the lines of "Thank god it's Friday! Can I get an amen?" I refused to say something so tragically lame and was still debating with myself when the doors opened on the 9th floor. We went our separate ways, sigh. And now he'll never know how sometimes I'm desperately in love with him. (I say sometimes because I'm pretty much an 'outta sight, outta mind' girl.)

And even though it is lame, thank god it's Friday! Can I get an amen?