I tend to get lost in songs and the boys that go along
with them. It may reveal a lot about the lack of feminism in my belief system,
but just about every song I truly love brings me back to a memory of an
unshaven guy. Some of which were monumental while others momentary. I used to
ramble about my love life to anyone who would listen. Stories revolved around
this one time with this one guy without hesitation. Now, it’s not that I shy
from revealing my past but more so that the stories get blurred or lost as I
dig further into my twenties. Some memories, some men, some moments are
unforgettable. And I’m reminded of this every time I merge onto 405, heading
from my hometown into the emerald sheen of Seattle.
There’s something about the “almost” factor of a crush. Every lingering glance inspires a smirk, leaving it impossible to be mysterious. An obnoxious chuckle earned from a silly joke gets you higher than whatever your college roommate was smoking in your dorm. And you end every movie marathon hoping to make plans for the next.
The guy singing this song is the most memorable crush of them all, and whenever I hear it, I’m brought back to the purity of 18. Of how it feels to have an honest to goodness crush. A consuming flirtation that leaves you electrified in your blue plaid bikini, gazing at his tattoo’s crown. The urge to make a move, turning “almost” into “finally.” There’s something about this song that still, 7 years later, makes my heart flutter and again I’m that goofy 18 year old hopelessly, hopefully smitten. Desperately wishing to be in one of the polaroids on his wall, and know that he was singing this song about me, to me.
Where would we be without unrequited crushes? What if every “almost” ended with a defining thump of “over?” This song and interstate 405 remind me all too regularly that I was completely consumed by a crush on a tall handsome baseball junkie with a giant nose. And as the ink on his chest begins to fade away, I can’t help but hope he remembers my smirk and that blue plaid bikini.
[Lindsey Bluher was named after Lindsey Buckingham, but as her hands are too small to reach all the strings on a guitar she chose to make a life writing about all the bands she'll never be in. Lindsey is Seattle native, lover of street meat, and proud holder of a useless degree in History. How Kristen Bell feels about sloths is how she feel about otters.]