Something has happened. Something big. I expected that this might occur in these months of meeting tons of new people – and whaddayaknow – it did. I have developed an enormous, impossible crush.

We were actually introduced a couple of years ago, but fell out of contact for the past year or so. Since I left on The Big Trip, he and I reconnected… and the sparks flew. At least on my end. He isn’t actually aware that we’re meant to be together.

My first-ever crush was Captain Von Trapp. Strong and stoic and incredibly handsome, my 6-year old self dreamed of marrying him someday. But eventually, I decided he was too old for me, and moved on to Elijah Wood. ‘Lij (as his friends called him, according to Big Bop magazine) was the first boy to grace my bedroom wall via a centerfold poster from a teen magazine, but after my siblings made fun of me, his poster moved to the wall in the back of my closet where I could meet his piercing blue eyes whenever I pulled a sweater from the hanger.

Then, along came Devon Sawa. This blonde heartthrob was enough to make Christina Ricci stop taping her boobs in “Now and Then,” and believe me, if I had had any chest to speak of when I was 12 years old, I would have done the same. He and Brad Renfro vied for the title of “best bad boy” for a couple of years – although Brad is the one who actually eventually earned himself a criminal record.

Christian Bale rocked my world as Jack Kelly in “Newsies,” and later as Laurie in “Little Women.” He… kind of still rocks my world.

Along with Joey Potter, I vacillated between Dawson and Pacey. Boy next door? Or hottie from troubled background and unstable family – rough around the edges, with a tendency to drink and fight too much, but probably a good kisser? Yeah. Definitely Pacey.

N’SYNC hit the scene the summer that I turned 16, and although I was probably too old for the mania, I joined right in. I couldn’t help it. JC Chasez? Justin Timberlake? Too hot for the Disney Channel. I even had a thing for Lance before… well, you know. I saw them live at Mile High Stadium in Denver, and I don’t know that I have ever screamed so loud. Anyone who thinks of teenage girls as weak and ineffective have obviously never seen them in the vicinity of the band for which Sisqo was the opening act.

Many have come and gone, and a small number of bizarre man-crushes will continue for all perpetuity (John Cusack, Dennis Quaid, and Mark Harmon, to name a few). But the one guy who surpasses them all? Who is more crush-worthy than any guitar-playing, poetry-writing, medicine-practicing, fire-fighting, beer-slinging, mountaineering, football-playing buffoon that I have pined after in real life?

Jim Halpert.

Dear Lord, please incarnate Jim Halpert, the world’s most charming man, into real life. And then allow us to run into each other at a gas station when I get to California tonight. I’ll take care of the rest. Amen.

For the most part, I consider myself a pretty good “catch.” I am smart. I am witty. I am a good communicator. I am decent looking – not that I look in the mirror and exclaim, “DAYYY-amn, girl!” but I clean up okay. I take care of myself. I am well-read, and a good conversationalist. I am cultured. I like music, dogs, and adventures. All in all, I think I’m a pretty good Annie. What I have to offer isn’t perfect, but it’s pretty good. Any man would want me, right?

Wrong. I have a big, fat shortcoming. Something that is a major turnoff with the gentlemen. Something that is all too obvious during these autumnal days.

I do not like football.

It’s not that I dislike football – I just don’t feel one way or another toward it. And most of the men in my life – even the gay ones – love it. I tend to like guys who like football; it’s not a conscious choice, but somehow I’m drawn to these men. But these men are usually looking for a girl with a jersey, a girl who will turn on the game because she wants to watch, too, a girl who can eat the nachos and drink the beer and not gain an ounce. If I tried to join the 12th Man, it would be a joke, a farce.

I simply have no working knowledge of the game. It was only last year that I realized that there are 4 downs, which means 4 CHANCES. (Why didn’t you say so in the first place?) I was chastised last winter for shrugging my shoulders and saying, “Seven points? What’s the big deal – that’s like one point in baseball.” Guys who love football have no patience for my ignorance.

All of my football knowledge comes from pop culture. This will surely present a problem when my someday-lover is upset over a game, and I try to console him: “Oh, sweetie, do you have… the… Varsity Blues? Maybe you need to… Remember the Titans!” Due to their criminal history, I know about OJ Simpson, Todd Marinovich, and Michael Vick (may he rot in jail). Due to their love lives, I know about Tony Romo (dating Carrie Underwood) and Tim Hasselbeck (married to Elisabeth from “The View”). Due to his cute grin, I know about Brett Favre.

And yes, I know that it’s pronounced “Farv.” I’m not completely clueless.

When I think about football, I don’t get into the whole “warrior” aspect. I know, I know: the helmets, the battle, the full-body contact, the “being part of something bigger than yourself,” the strategic war that is raging on the field. But since I’m not really into the details, all that I see are thick necks and a bunch of booty-slapping. And a crew of old men with headsets and clipboards on the sidelines (what are they doing??).

But I AM interested in the sociocultural side of things. If Oprah did a bunch of human interest stories on the players, I would totally pay attention. Did they come from hardship, or were they privileged? How many kids do they have? Do they love their wives? How many nannies help out, and do they give them a car? I want to know how the referee got into his career. And what does he like to do in his free time? Who decides which pigs to slaughter for the football? Who designs the uniforms? And who is the invisible-yet-highly competent executive assistant to the manager? How much does she get paid? And maybe I could have that job?

Since I know so much about football.

Dear Men of Seattle,

I have spent 7 years in our fair city, and I am the first to admit that throughout this time, I have had high hopes that one of you might wind up being “The One.” When I am honest with myself, what I really, ultimately dream of in life is to marry a good man and have a family and LOVE. I have “dated” a few of you, and “spent time” with many, always with an observant eye. I hoped that a couple of you might take; however, over time, every last one of you has, for one reason or another, been ripped away like a giant cosmic Band-Aid.

It’s okay. I have learned valuable lessons from you. For example:

* A man who makes good guacamole is hard to find.
* The speed limit on Lake Union is 7 knots. And the boat police are vigilant.
* The most unromantic birthday gift in the universe is an iron and a tube of wood glue.
* Whiskey can lead to regrettable text messages.
* Nachos and beer can be just as good as lobster and wine, depending on the company.
* Following a first kiss, the suitable response is never, “Well, I can check that off my to-do list.”
* After a Seahawks loss, the minimum recovery time is 36 hours.
* Insecurity results in crazy, inexcusable behavior (this one is directed solely at myself).
* It is possible to be truly, genuinely excited for a newly affianced ex-boyfriend.
* The unexpected resurfacing of a hometown boy can do a heart much good.
* Dramamine: better safe than sorry.
* Ex-boyfriends always get new girlfriends.
* Sometimes, a kiss is the best option. And sometimes… it’s not.
* Sometimes, honesty is the best policy. And sometimes… it isn’t.
* Sometimes, I can be friends with an ex. And sometimes… I can’t.
* I am not always right.
* But I usually am.

And most importantly, I have learned:

* I am capable of great big love.

I’ll admit it: I am a romantic. And even though I have not found the right one yet, I am hopeful you are out there somewhere. But for now, as of Monday, I am leaving this city that I have come to call “home” in order to do something else for awhile.

Perhaps we will meet in Seattle again. Until then, all the best to you. Thanks for the good times and for the bad, for I am grateful for anything that helps my spirit grow.

Peace out,
Annie

I was eating pho with my friend Elisha when she confessed that she had wanted to set me up on a date with a friend of hers. After describing him as being an awesome, delightful guy, she stopped and thought. “But,” she paused, “He might be a little too clean cut for you.”

Imagining a crew cut and plaid shorts, I asked, “Oh, because he’s in the Air Force?”

Elisha hesitated again.

“Ooooooohhh,” I said, as it dawned on me. “You mean MORALLY.” Yes. Yes, she did. It’s good to know that I am known as someone who, when it comes to virtue, will require a certain amount of compromise when it comes to a mate. However, as a certain pastor (who shall remain nameless) recently said to me, “You have to know that during an argument, you can feel free to tell your husband to F off.” [Before I get hate-mail from men, please know that I am being fairly sardonic here. Passably.]

My conversation with Elisha got me thinking about my deal-breakers when it comes to men. Now, I am not looking to date. As many of you know, I have been pretty emotionally unavailable for several months now, and do not foresee that changing any time soon. To be honest, I believe that a boyfriend would only cramp my style and my new-found sense of purpose. But on the inevitable day when I am ready to jump back into the cruel and awkward dating pool, it would be helpful to know what I am looking for, and more importantly, what I am not looking for.

Listing deal-breakers is dangerous, because you never know who you might fall for. Lord knows I used to think that Dungeons & Dragons would be a no-can-do, but it’s amazing what becomes endearing when you’re in love. However, I am fairly confident that the following should serve as the red alert that screams “run like the plague.”

1) Hummers or tiny sports cars. Both are indicative of a larger issue of the ego.
2) Cat lovers. I believe that cat lovers and dog lovers are mutually exclusive – one cannot truly be both – and my allergies are severe. I would rather live my life with a Bernese Mountain dog than with the feeling that I have swallowed shards of glass.
3) Disrespect towards wait-staff and servers. I don’t care if you didn’t get the table that you wanted. I don’t care if your dressing didn’t come on the side. There is nothing more unattractive than a man who is discourteous… except, of course,
4) Rotten teeth. I learned this one the hard way.
5) The last name “Crannie.” For obvious reasons.