Facebook the other day about having a crush on her son’s orthodontist and even went so far as to admit that yes, she’s a stalker and “damn proud of it”. Now that’s a woman after my own heart! After all, who among us can honestly say we haven’t perused gossip magazine headlines or stared a little too long into the windows of passing limousines? We’re all guilty of some sort of deep seeded curiosity of other human beings, which at times, can cross the line of polite discretion. I too, if you can possibly imagine, am guilty of a wee bit of lurking about. Now before judgment begins, try to remember dear friends and blog readers, that what you are about to read was all done in the name of passion or something which could also be construed as hormonal insanity.
The first great love in everyone’s life is enormous. The sun and moon rises and sets by the very essence of this human being. It was this way with my first crush. If my young lover told me that the earth was flat then that was the truth. Nothing he did was wrong. I swore that I would die gasping his name on my death bed. When he told me he needed “space” (What? Why? Did I cling? Was I overbearing? No, Bri. He liked a guy named, John), I didn’t understand. What did I do? I was the perfect girlfriend. I worshipped him. I needed him. So, I resorted to a tactic wholly unknown to me but yet came as easily as breathing, the fine art of stalking.
Stalking is an interesting strategy. I’ve found over time that it doesn’t necessarily make the receiver of the “hunt” very comfortable. Strange; I’d find it extremely flattering.
With my first experience, I would drive miles over several Southern California freeways to arrive at this young man’s house. Subtlety is a huge factor, stealth is extremely important also. At the time, I drove a 1971 Chevy Monte Carlo with a rattling engine. I didn’t consider the fact that it had a very distinct sound and a backfire which could be heard three signals away. It also didn’t occur to me that my lover lived on a cul-de-sac with only five houses; his being on the center of the circle with his bedroom window facing the street. None of this mattered. What I needed to know was what he was doing. Was he thinking of me? How would I know unless I drove by very slooooowwwwly and peered into his bedroom window and of course one drive by would not suffice, NO! I had to turn around and circle his street several times to satisfy my curiosity. I was GOOD, DAMN GOOD! I was there and gone before he ever had a clue, I’m certain of it. I wonder why he’s never tried to friend me on Facebook? Odd.
I haven’t had too many other experiences with stalking only because I’ve been married to my very best friend for years; however, it’s not unheard of that married women, such as my friend with the orthodontist, can have “crushes” from time to time. Our husbands are aware of our antics and can only shake their heads and laugh.