To start, I have always been a late bloomer. I mean, despite the fact that I had a “boyfriend” in preschool (Georgie was a red-head…), and “dated” the same guy from 6th grade through sometime my senior year (because we looked cute together), I really didn’t have a honest-to-goodness irrational-infatuational crush until almost two months after I was married.
Scratch that. Of course, I had a crush on my husband before I married him, … and before that I had a crush on that other guy… and that guy who dumped me in college… and the guy I had to break up with to date my now-husband…
What I meant to say was “crush on a celebrity.”
I didn’t care about the New Kids on the Block, or… I don’t know who else girls had crushes on then. Oh, yeah, didn’t gush for David Ducovony either, unlike one of my best friends, an X-File head.
I didn’t care.
They were distant beings from another world. They still are. There was no reason to lust after them, not even in the pink-bubblegum-teeny-b way.
Enter “Pirates of the Caribbean” and Johnny Depp as Captain Jack Sparrow.
Now, at nearly 27, I’m one with the masses of 12-year-olds.
I bring this up because Mr. Depp is on the cover of June’s Rolling Stone… and… well… really, he’s hot.
That and my husband suggested going to see Pirates 3 at the opening midnight showing this Thursday night, which I’d jump at except that… it seems wrong.
Thursday is our anniversary.