Sweeping, flowing hair with a half-smile determined to steal an ironic heart, she glances in my direction. No, she stares briefly. Or was it I who stared briefly at her? I meekly raise my hand to acknowledge her notice of me and to express goodwill.
I find it strange. Strange that I admire her sensibility and excuse-me-while-I-proceed-not-to-give-a-damn attitude. Strange that I desire to obtain the clothes she struts about in. I have a “crush” on her in the most business like sense.
She’s the girl I hope to be or hope to be with when I am older.
Speaking sarcastic quips and managing an indefatigable thirst for Starbucks without sweating a pretentious nature out of one’s pores proves to some to be an insurmountable feat. Alas, she accomplishes it.Her thrift store blazers fit her like a well-worn glove. Her tucked-in shirts and sensible attire mundanely scream, “Beneath me are some, but I’m willing to tolerate them without blatant distaste. ” It is rather unlikely that I am ever to be her friend. Perhaps on the status-saturated world they call Facebook, but nothing more. I’m fine with that.
Maybe I have found that hero so many speak of finding in a celebrity, family member, or emergency worker. I think again about saying my fondness of her reaches beyond a platonic nature. I merely find in her what I see as “my type of person.”
I admire you, Ms. Monotone. I absolutely admire you.