The sexiest thing is trust

So, clearly I've been listening to a lot of Tori Amos lately. (The title of this blog post comes from the song "Jamaica Inn") but I have to say the soundtrack to my most recent crush is for sure Tegan  & Sara (no, he's not a woman, it's just that their music tends to be more about the slightly-creepy-can't-actually-talk-to-you-how-is-this-SO-awkward kind of love.) Anyway. I keep telling myself I Do Not Have A Crush On Him Anymore. At All. Seriously.

Oh but I do. This morning we were talking in the hallway before class and he looked at me for what was probably a couple of seconds but felt like a moderate-length geological age and I could hear my little rational self pounding her fists on the inside of my love-struck face screaming "WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?! YOU HAVE A TEST IN 15 MINUTES!" to, of course, no avail. None whatsoever.

And so now, instead of writing about important things like world events or even funny cat videos on the internet (or the raccoon I saw in a tree on capitol hill last night!)  or, I don't know, maybe MY FUCKING THESIS, I'm writing about how I for sure do not have a crush on this guy I'm absolutely head over heels for because I know I could never trust myself with emotion this irrational. Hence, the lyrics. Trust is the sexiest thing and I just don't feel capable of it lately.

So I'm asking myself WWBS? (What Would Ballard Say?) Matt Ballard was, for those of you not fortunate enough to work with him at Borders in DC, my wise, wonderful friend and probably the individual deserving the most credit for me returning to college at all (not to mention my impending graduation.) Ballard had all kinds of wisdom for moments like these, moments so awkward as to approach unbearable, moments when my priorities were thrown so completely out of wack by my emotions, moments where I feel, as ever, like the awkward girl in 7th grade still longing for Billy Ruiz to turn his lovely eyes in my direction just once before the bell rings and homeroom is over.

Ballard would say, Kelsey, (imagine this in a British accent, it helps) you've got to grow up. Or something like that. It might involve a self-deprecating and amusing anecdote from his own days as a young awkward kid, it might involve sage advice about how he managed to end up with his wonderful wife, or it might involve a vaguely exasperated sigh and the unsubtle suggestion that this is a lesson I ought to have learned a long time ago.

Ok, boss, I'm trying.

I met Ballard at a time when I'd lost any kind of trust in other people, particularly in men, in myself, and even in my perceptions of reality. He let me follow him around like a lost puppy, learning his merchandising preferences and the way he took his tea (just a splash of whole milk or cream) and gave me a few months to not worry about who or what to trust and just to put one foot in front of the other, one book on table beside the next. Height and color and shape and symmetry. The world that become far too complicated for me to handle was reduced to the simple order of making the bookstore look as nice as possible for as long as possible.

And then, maybe because I'd had enough time in the safe world inside the walls of Borders, maybe because he was moving and didn't want to leave me behind, or maybe because he recognized the red flags of another impending meltdown, Ballard sent me home to Seattle. Go back to school, he said. Figure out what makes you happy and do that. Just do that. Don't worry so much about everything else.

Life didn't magically become easy, I didn't magically become sane or calm or whole, it's still taken me far  too long to get even this close to graduation, but I survived. Most days I grew up a little.

Most days I still do.

Today, I guess, is just not one of those days. I guess we'll see about tomorrow.