Stardust . . .

Let me start by saying: I have never known how to do anything by half. If I get an idea in my head I go all-out with it, committing that annoying 110% and trekking through snow and cold to get it done if necessary, losing sleep and hair and whatever else. I just do it.

I also need to say: I never flirt, or even know how. My method with guys is simple: girl meets boy, likes boy, tries to pretend she just wants to be friends, and eventually gets over her feelings. The few times I have taken the initiative, it has not gone well; there is usually awkwardness, the inevitable "let's be friends" discussion, and sometimes even a fair bit of humiliation thrown in just for kicks. So, it is always with trepidation that I approach a guy with my feelings; I just don't seem to be the sort that any guy wants to date.

All that said, I need to now relate the rather embarrassing events of the last week.

A few weeks ago now I blogged about my irritation over a recent crush, and how my intention here was to simply let it go away. Not long after that, I decided I was going to pull a complete 180 and throw myself out there to see what happened. Remember what I said about never doing anything by half as I continue.

I decided to plan a scavenger a la Amelie, one of my favorite films and something the guy in question has also professed to like. I set to work crafting the clues and deciding where they should go, filling small glass vials with iridescent glitter, tying ribbons to old broken spectacles, cutting out words from magazines to form notes, taking pictures of my stomach with a huge question mark written on it (don't ask). I then trekked about the city putting the clues in place, hanging one in the window of one of my favorite theatres in Evanston, hiding another inside a copy of Stardust at a Borders, leaving another at my favorite used book store, etcetera. I planned to finally meet him at an improv comedy theatre for an improvised Shakespeare show, and as the time approached I had a stomach full of butterflies. Would he show up? Would he be disappointed to see it was me behind it? Would he feel awkward and not know what to say, not wanting to hurt my feelings? Did he miss a clue, or decide not to do the hunt at all?

As 10:30 rolled around, and then passed, and then really passed, I realized he was not going to come. I felt like a puddle of water, dissolved and dripping everywhere. I dragged myself home, resolved not to cry over it, as I had, after all, done this to myself, and had to deal with a possibly sick rabbit and go to bed.

In the morning, wanting to simply put the whole thing behind me, I logged onto Facebook and promptly saw his status: Nxxxxxxx thinks he may have failed at a scavenger hunt >_<.

Gulp. I showed my sister, and then decided to put it all out there, and commented back, letting him know I was behind the whole thing. I suggested he follow the clues anyway, even if the last one was expired, since he now knew it was me . . . and that was the last I heard. Ball firmly and entirely in his court.

I cannot help now, looking back on the stressful week, to wonder if I will ever really figure this love thing out. It's rather like a piece of IKEA furniture with no directions, just a pile of wood and assorted parts and screws and allen wrenches, and I have to somehow figure out how it goes together. I keep making the wrong furniture, I think, but eventually, after taking it apart and putting it back together a few hundred times, I might end up with that Urgesluudermeig table or something.

I guess we'll see.