I can't definitively say that it was love. I can't. I won't. Because I've only been in "it" once, and that took almost a year of campaigning on his part to persuade me that the nagging, aching feeling that I was so desperately trying to drown with studying and exercise was actually love in the flesh.
So, in seeing how I had something very similar to that nagging feeling, I present my blog.
He walked in the house and I was shocked at how my insides responded to him. It was sort of this leaping/gasping/flounderin
I saw him again the following day, though back and forth about what I was going to wear when I saw him, I opted out for casual and did what I felt was comfortable. The complete misery that was rushing through my body when I talked to him, when I wasn't talking to him, when I was avoiding eye contact and smiling nervously at him, was unavoidable torture. I didn't eat the entire time he was there and when he finally left I was so worked up that I could still barely choke down my own dinner that I had (so lovingly) prepared. Somewhere between closing the door behind him and breathing a sigh of relief, I turn around to see my friends eyeballing me and almost tossing my carcass out into the night for me to go and chase after him and give him what they dub as "the boob hug." Apparently what I gather, through explicit illustrations, its when a girl firmly presses her boobs against a guy's chest, to remind (and assure) him that she does indeed, without a doubt, own breasts. Let him take it from there.
Exhausting.
All the while, a wild ride for many, I need a day off to recuperate and replenish my way of thinking. "Love" can wait. I think I'll stick with the cool, refreshing breeze of the single life a while longer.
