It wasn’t so much him that I was obsessed with but rather the way I felt when I was with him or even just breathing the same air as him that was so addicting. First and foremost, this kid is entirely and completely out of my league so it is unfathomable to me that I peaked somewhat of his interest…but I did and now, as a result, I am completely and undeniably hooked. Everything about him drives me crazy in the best way imaginable and it seems as though my mind is consumed with sole thoughts of him and his hazel eyes that I kid you not send shivers down every ounce of my body. I know this is bad already, I can tell. I am relentlessly distracted and there’s no turning back.
But those eyes, those deep, mysterious eyes have me latched on in pursuit of solving the puzzle that is the man beneath the tattoos and sculpted muscles I lust after every glance although most times I cannot even look him straight in the face. But even more so I find myself utterly intoxicated by the pure ecstasy provoked by the feeling when he holds my face in his hands. I simultaneously feel absolute chills and intense warmth with his immediate touch and with that I fall into my most vulnerable state feeling as though I could fall apart into a million pieces. He breaks me down into my most honest version of myself absent of the several walls I’ve always had up.
But now I find myself at a standstill confused on whether or not my initial infatuation has evolved into something deeper. I guess that’s the funny thing about obsessions, addictions, fixations if you will, they change you. It’s not so much the physical being or object you find yourself obsessed with, but really it’s the feelings you derive from them or the person you become as a result of them that you truly are obsessed with. So here I am, irrevocably and irreversibly obsessed with a person, a man, my next door neighbor. He is everything I need and everything I want. The only thing that keeps me up at night is his silence—his reluctance to tell me how he actually feels and that, in and of itself, is the most insecure feeling a girl can have.
A boy I dated once said, "Scarlett loves everything she doesn't hate" and I laughed because it was true.
Like my affections towards him, whether it's writing or Hilary Duff, I'm not the kind of person who falls out of devotion quickly. I am a consistent obsessor. This may be the true sign of obsession.
Thinking about the word "obsession,' however, I realized how much I rely on it to encapsulate my attraction to ideas, people, art.
How many things do I love without questioning? How many more could I if I did?
There is no analysis in obsession. I leave no room for it.
At some point in my twenty-year history I must have felt un-obsessed. I wonder what people thought of me then, a girl with no obsessions. Surely they gave me one. Surely they told me what were the worthwhile ones to have.
This may be one of the worse things I have ever admitted, but Taylor Swift was right. I’m not talking about the Taylor Swift of today who chopped off her hair in a whirl win of post John Mayer, Jake Gyllenhaal, and Joe Jonas angst. No, this is the braces, curly-haired, awkward girl who was ignored by all (or at least according to her first album she was). There is nothing like being a freshman in love with a senior. This is why so many women end up with older guys. Older guys will always have some sort of strange appeal to us. Hugh Hefner has been banking on this his whole life. The man still somehow has game, which also can be accredited to his bank account but that’s a different complex women deal with.
I liked to pretend in high school that I didn’t care about them, but the tall, dark seniors with the fully formed beards and untamed hair that hung out the back of their lacrosse helmets (even the ones that chose mullets as a “joke”) were all I wanted. I wanted to wear the jerseys in the stands, get a wink in the hallway, or just wait at my locker during free period. Like the rest of the girls, I spent a lot of my lunch period staring over into the Senior commons, wanting to be the freshman that was accepted and no one questioned. The obsessive Molly Ringwald in me thought that I had a chance with the Jake Ryan, but let’s be honest I had a bob that I thought looked like Posh Spice but it was more Velma Dinkley from Scooby Doo.
My senior complex continued until my junior year. Every year the girls and boys lacrosse teams held a fashion show for each team’s trip. It was left up to the players to try and raise the money for the buses and hotels, etc. The mothers all organized a fashion show in which we were suppose to model local business’s clothing. Junior year was the first time I participated in this event.
I got my hair done (at this point it had grown out of the bob and let’s just say thank god getting better looking with age is an actual thing). I spent hours at the hair salon only to find I was late for the rehearsal. I ran out of the salon as the fabulous man with the feathered hair from Wham! who blow dried my hair was waving good luck my way. This is the point in Sex and the City where Sarah Jessica Parker would have pulled off the very cute, hot mess act. But my life is more like Lizzie McGuire.
I hopped in my car, only to find I left the convertible top down. I tried to pull it up to salvage my hair, that was worthy of a Pantene commercial. In my rush, I gave up on the top after numerous minutes of struggling and getting sweatier and sweatier. I swerved out of the parking lot like a bat out of hell. The wind whipped through my formerly, faultless hair that was now drying sweat to my forehead like a brunette wet-nap. When I get to our high school gymnasium, I can’t find anyone. I can feel the laces of the moccasins I borrowed from my sister hitting my ankles as I sprinted around the school looking for everyone. I find everyone in the auditorium, the only light guiding me were the stage lights, only to see my section of the show standing there. Note to self: follow the light is bullshit. I could feel my heart hit the bottom of my stomach. The rest of the teams are watching from the front seats. I start heading down the incline like I’m at the Sochi Olympics my feet are moving faster than my body could process, until suddenly I lose them completely. My soles can’t find the ground and everything starts to move in slow motion. The stage light starts to move higher and higher like a never-ending day in the Nevada desert. I’m assuming this is where the inspiration for The Hangover came from. My moccasins are now in front of me and the next time I find the floor is when my face hits the sandpaper carpet and I’m sliding down like a slip and slide without any water (a fear that now haunts my dreams). When I finally come to, I find every senior lacrosse player looking down at me as I roll to my back. The ring of long haired beauties should have been a dream but in reality it was a nightmare. I can’t make out any faces long enough before I am awoken by a step-ford mother in pearls and Lily Pulitzer pulling me off the ground. The Mommy Barbie was gripping my arm so hard that it almost masked the rug burn my face was suffering from. She shoved me in a seat in front of everyone and she might as well have added a “dunce” hat. I buried my head into my knees, trying to cover my face. But I still could hear, “It was Katie guys.”