Charming, but single

Note from S: I am backdating this to Dec. 25 because it was written on Dec. 25, but for some reason I couldn't get it to post. Sorry. Enjoy! I have eaten too much to write anything touching or sweet or special about Christmas. Too many cheese-based appetizers, cream-based soups, fat-based meals and sugar-based desserts. At this moment, I am barely conscious. (Suffice it to say I feel very blessed, this year more so than ever.) And tomorrow, on my day off, I have an early doctor’s appointment. And then I’m going eyeglasses shopping, because apparently I am now so old that I not only need regular glasses to function daily and prescription sunglasses to drive, but I also require special glasses to help my eyes focus when I’m using a computer. (Have I written about being an adult glasses wearer yet? I haven’t? Why not!) Before I drift off into my post-Christmas sugar coma, a story: Each Christmas Eve, after opening presents with my extended family, I go to Midnight Mass with my parents and siblings. I’m not a terribly religious person (as if that wasn’t abundantly clear already), but it is tradition. It doesn’t seem like Christmas without the singing, the familiar prayers, the two cups of coffee I have to drink to keep me awake past 1 a.m. when the huge meal from hours before kicks in. I also check out shoes and outfits and purses and hairstyles. I usually run into a former classmate or two. There’s this cute boy who was a year ahead of me in school. I don’t know him very well, but he’s nice and our parents know each other and we talk when we see each other. And he is always at Midnight Mass. I caught a glimpse of him as he slipped into his pew next to his mother. He gets cuter every year – he’s successful, went to a great school, has a good job. Intelligent. Clean cut and tall. Well-dressed. So cute. A catch. A total catch. It might be terribly wrong that I check this guy (and others) out at Midnight Mass. Perhaps I am going straight to hell for admiring attractive men from afar. But I can’t help myself. I figure if God didn’t want me to gaze, he wouldn’t give me something so nice to look at. After the service ended, everyone shuffled out of the Church, stopping to say hello to family friends. The Cute Boy walked toward the door and stopped to talk to another guy who was a year ahead of me in school. I straightened my shoulders, steadied myself on my heels and smiled as I walked by. My mom turned to me as we hurried through the cold and to the car. “He gets cuter every year,” she said. “Why didn’t you talk to him?” We have this conversation each Christmas. I never have a good excuse. This year, I blamed my sudden shyness on the time and being tired. “I just want to get in bed,” I said. But really, a girl just needs some boys to look at, but not touch. Cute fantasies (and, no, not sexual ones) and great catches to think about. And breaking out of fantasy mode and actually talking to the objects of our desire, well, it just spoils the fun sometimes. We all need some pure eye candy every now and again. And at Midnight Mass, I always have a sweet tooth.