All Aboard the Crazy Train

There have been times in my life when I have gotten my ticket punched for the Crazy Train. I have been standing on the platform, waiting for the cars to pull to a stop so that I can get on board, well on my way to doing something stupid.

My bags were packed full of heated emotion, and at the last second, just as this runaway train was about to pull away from the station, I thought better of my trip to Nuttyville. And I retreated from the tracks as the train left in a dizzying cloud of steam and smoke.

And there have been times when I got on that train, punched the conductor right between the eyes, kicked the engineer in the nuts and took control. Wide-eyed with insanity and blind to rational thought, I blew the goddamned whistle, rang the fucking bell, and drove that train straight through Crazy Town and ended up in Downtown Uuuuuugly.

If you have ever created a master plan in which a potential lover would accidentally run into you at the grocery store, Starbucks, or a local gay bar, you were making plans for a trip.

If you have ever driven past a lover's house in the middle of the night just to make sure he was at home alone, your bags were packed.

If you have ever called his house just to see if he would answer and then hang up knowing he had Caller ID, you were making reservations.

If, like The Pink Lady a few months ago, you called a friend and asked in a semi-frantic voice mail for the friend to call the missing-in-action love interest at work just to make sure he was alive, your traveling companion might have been Glenn Close in "Fatal Attraction." Fortunately for The Pink Lady, she had the good sense to get off the crazy train before the situation escalated into boiling his bunny.

I like to think of myself as a semi-rational human being, capable of knowing the difference between genuine concern and stalking. But there is something about infatuation and blossoming romance that makes otherwise sane people jump on an out-of-control steam engine and pilot it for a one-way trip to Crazy. And the thing about it is, as my mother would say, you know better than that.

We've all taken that trip, and we've all watched our friends speed away on that train, thinking they had lost every bit of God-given sense. But what can you do but wish them safe travels and hope they make it back home alive?

For two weeks, I have been chest-deep in infatuation with a particular boy, and I've caught myself pacing the floor, waiting for a phone call or anticipating seeing him. We've had a handful of dates, so it's not as if I'm stalking from a distance (Red Flag #1 -rationalization). And I get the feeling he is genuinely interested, but it's been frustrating not being as engaged as I'd like (Red Flag #2 - desire). We have conflicting schedules, so obviously things can't move as quickly as I'd like either (Red Flag #3 - impatience). I've driven down his street on my way to get gas. Never mind that it was out of my way. (Red Flag #4 - stalkerish tendencies).

It's a rough rail to ride. How do you show interest without becoming a fucking basketcase? And how do you keep the madman, all-consuming thoughts at bay? And how do you keep from becoming giddy as a love-struck schoolgirl everytime his name shows up on the Caller ID?

So here I stand on the platform. My bags are packed. My ticket is in hand. I hear Crazy Train rumbling down the tracks. I'll either get off in the town of Embarrassment or I'll end up in the big city of Love.

Hmmm... after a sentence like that, the village of Shame seems a likely destination.