Lunch Break Heartache

Hello my darlings!
It's 12:45 p.m. on a weekday. 

What are YOU doing?

If you're one of the 19 people who have my job, chances are good that you're splayed, sock-footed, in your Marriott bed, watching the last 15 minutes of TLC's What Not to Wear.

I mean, the odds are pretty good.  Like, 90% chance that's what you're doing. 

Here's why:  What Not to Wear is always, always on at lunchtime.  Consistently, in every city in America. 
TV is there for you when nothing else is.

We all watch it.

I watch What Not to Wear every day.

The best part of the makeover is always when Nick, the Scottish hairstylist, says, "Noaw, you're gunta a see a lot o' hair on the floor, so doon't panic," and then the middle-aged woman getting her hair cut starts crying hot, predictable tears.
 

Every episode, this happens.

After an hour of this shit, most of my colleagues go back to work.

Refreshed.  Ready to deal, once more, with idiotic seminar participants.


They forget all about What Not to Wear. 

But not me.

 I'm in a high sweat; tearing at my cuticles; unable to concentrate or even think about anything but the ripping sound my heartstrings are making.

*OMG PAINFUL UNREQUITED LOVE!!!*

I have a new celebrity crush.
And it's realllllll bad, because this time I have no explanation for it.
None whatsoever.
She's not even my type!  She's not even close to my type! What is this? 
What the fuck is this???

My crush isn't Stacy London. 

It's not Clinton Kelly.

It's...

Carmindy, the What Not to Wear makeup artist! 

AAGGH lookather.  She's my delicate shimmering hummingbird!

Carmindy comes onscreen with her hair in a messy ponytail and her pockets full of makeup brushes. 

She bends over her nervous makeoveree and looks intently at his or her face. 

Her eyes flicker over the blank canvas she's been given.

I want Carmindy to look at me like that.

She always takes a deep breath, smiles - as if she likes what she sees - and murmurs,

"You have amazing eyes. I reeeeaalllly want to bring those out."

If Carmindy were doing my makeup, I bet I'd be able to look right down her shirt.

Her breasts would be nestling together like doves; the line of cleavage a scented mystery.

I bet she smells like expensive rosewater and $7 vanilla cupcakes.

And look at that pointy little fucking jaw!

She's her own can-opener.  I just want to set her chin over a can of peaches and slam it down to open the top!

She looks like a mean, popular girl. 

She looks like Sandy from "Grease".  
She looks exactly like a cleaned-up Blondie and that makes her a fucking monster.

Fuck. 

Guys, I know she's straight.  I usually have a self-preserving policy against crushing on straight girls. 

But...I can't help it.
I want to wake up to Carmindy. 
I want her blonde hair to be all messed up as she rolls sleepily out of my white cotton sheets. 

I want her to make me gluten-free waffles, naked except for a ruffly apron. 

I want her to out-femme me.
I want to buy her shoes and pretty gold necklaces with chains more delicate than a strand of baby's hair. 

I want to suck on her pearly pink polished fingertips!
Aaagh!!! 
What is happening to me?

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