I remember very clearly the first time I developed a crush that, well, shall we say stirred my loins
. I was starting high school and somehow managed to see Class
even though it was rated R. I fell hard for Andrew McCarthy (not Rob Lowe, like the rest of teenage girldom) and could not [still can't]
get his sweet sensitive geekiness out of my erotic brain. I realize that the foundation of this decades-long crush is his eternal status as the underdog, the back-up guy, the cute-but-not-unattainably-gorgeous one; frankly, it's how I've done crushing ever since.
Seriously, those eyes.
Too perfect? I'm so hurt.
Sorry, Rob. This is how you do hurt.
P.S. I have specifically avoided the Mannequin & Weekend At Bernie's movies in honor of my original fantasy. So call me, Andrew; you're still my favorite wounded second stringer. I'll add you to my Potential Second Husband list posthaste.
P.P.S I believe we could trace my Cougarishness to Class. Honestly, I do remember wishing I were 20 years older than Andrew so he might want to have an affair with me, too. Moxilicious or pathetic, you decide.