Fictional Crushes: The Final Frontier

I came across some things from college the other day. Some of it I tossed and others I tucked back away into a folder. One assignment sprung to mind even though it wasn’t among the papers I was holding. It was a conversation piece for a French class — a prompt to get us to work in expressing ourselves. I don’t remember the exact wording, but the gist was to describe a crush you had as a kid.

It was supposed to be a five to ten-minute thing. Not sure how long it took me, but I blew past the ten-minute mark and just kept going. I tried remembering someone from my class or neighborhood, who was the first crush. No one came to mind. I felt like there had been others before everyone that popped into my head. In the end, I did the only thing I could think of, I wrote about Indiana Jones and Han Solo.

For all the forgotten details, I do remember the professor’s feedback. He commented, saying my approach to the assignment was a creative and touching way to fulfill the job but cut the emotional awkwardness of the question. Heh heh. Yeah, that was my intention. Mmhmm. I was clever. That’s me.

I think you and I both know I hadn’t been clever nor had I been trying to avoid awkward admissions. Words needed to be on paper; otherwise, I hadn’t completed the assignment. For my own sake, I needed to be able to sound legitimate. Sure, I could have invented a Bobby Somebody or a Matt Guy. That would have been bullshit, and the assignment would have dragged on even longer it had already. The truth is, I think that was the way things went for me. Indiana Jones was my first crush, and Han Solo was my second.

The order might seem off to you, and it is. Han existed before Indy did by several years. In my childhood, that wasn’t how things went. Raiders of the Lost Ark was, in my parent’s eyes, more suited for kids than Star Wars. Or, Mom enjoyed Indiana Jones far more than Star Wars, so we owned those VHS tapes. Eh, I think we did own both, but the Star Wars set most likely lived in my brother’s room and only rarely made trips outside of that teenage wasteland. Whichever scenario was real, the sometimes bowtied clad professor won out over the scruffy-looking nerf herder for this Nerd Girl.

Other fictional crushes developed as the years went by. Mr. Darcy, Dylan McKay, Captain Wentworth, and Lonestar, to name a few. There was one among them who rivaled Indy and Han- Lt. Commander William Riker. Star Trek: The Next Generation was a show I didn’t miss even if it was a rerun. Barbies transformed into Starfleet officers despite not having proper uniforms. I fell, and I fell hard for Number One.

As I grew up, real boys took the spotlight away from the fictional crushes. The feelings for the figments of imagination never disappeared. Their intensity is less now because of how much time has passed. All the same, landing on a rerun of TNG, popping in a DVD or picking up a book is all it takes to bring me right back to those feelings, in the same way, the mention of the name of an actual person.

I’m talking about these men as if they only exist in mediums of imagination. Each of them, even most literary characters, have an actor portraying them on the big and small screens. They are all walking around right now somewhere living their own lives. They also happen to share the same face with Han Solo, Indiana Jones, etc.

Keeping your one-sided pre-teen crush and the actor playing said crush separate is easy when there is no chance of running into the physical person. Ah, but that’s it, it is possible. Two years ago, Jonathan Frakes attended RI Comic-Con. There was no question as to whether or not we were going to the Star Trek panel. Sitting in the same room was a fantastic experience. If I had been struck down immediately following the panel’s conclusion, I would have died with zero regrets. Afterward, we were walking around the celebrity booth area, and my husband stopped in his tracks. The TNG cast each had their own booths, including Mr. Frakes. My husband, knowing how much time I had spent crushing on Lt. Commander Riker, insisted I wait in line. After several “Nah…there are things to see” and “I don’t want to waste your time,” we got in Mr. Frakes’ line.

And then something started happening to me. My face was flushed, and my palms were beginning to sweat. After a minute or two in line, I started to fidget and squirm eying the exit doors. By about minute four, I wanted to run from the state as if it were on fire. By the time we got up to the man’s table, I had lost my ability to form words. My husband talked for me. Mr. Frakes was friendly and acted like it wasn’t weird for an adult standing in front of him basically incapacitated. Maybe he didn’t notice how spastic I was being. I am kidding no one. He saw but was too kind to make a point of it. For the picture, he put his arm on my shoulder.

Melt. Riker touched my shoulder.

It was a miracle I managed to stay upright. We thanked him and walked away. To be clear, the “we” in the last sentence was my husband. My brain and mouth hadn’t rediscovered one another, and my legs were still Jello. The tears leaking down my face, though, were the cherry on top of this disaster sundae. Mortified and embarrassed were not even close to how I felt- feel about the encounter. My experience can be summed up in a single quote: “Ugh, I carried a watermelon.”

That afternoon I had stood next to the man who brought William Riker to life. This is a character I had poured years of adolescent emotion and performance fan fiction into. To top it all off, this had happened in a large convention center packed with people. In effect, I had shown up to class in my underwear. On purpose.

Obviously, I wasn’t literally in my underwear. It was an emotional exposure I hadn’t realized I agreed to. By standing in that line, I was admitting how much I am a fan of Star Trek. Something I absolutely would not have done as a kid. The backlash would have been socially crippling. The remnants of that same childhood self-censoring boiled over that afternoon. My emotional crossing guard made one last-ditch effort to keep me from facing a non-existent threat by making me want to rabbit as if Taz was chasing me.

The near-total loss of communication skills was a slightly different matter. Sure, the crossing guard was still involved in the physical manifestation of being overwhelmed. This time, I was protecting me from myself. If I had been able to speak, verbal diarrhea would have dribbled uncontrollably out of my mouth. And, if I’m honest, I think I prefer the story to include temporary muteness rather than incoherent babble. There are only so many watermelons I can realistically carry.

I am glad my husband insisted I stand in line and get that picture. Yes, even including the loss of speech and uncomfortable sweating. I mean, come on, Jonathan Frakes touched my shoulder for crying out loud. My younger self would call bullshit on me if I could talk to her right now. She wouldn’t believe me no matter what proof I had on hand.

Would I go courting the experience again? I’m not sure. For all I know, this sort of thing only happens the very first time you meet a celebrity. I’d understand why people line up and wait for so long if that were the case. But, I have a sneaking feeling, if I made an attempt to meet someone famous again, the same thing would happen. If the opportunity to meet Harrison Ford ever came about, I would think my reaction to that experience would be exponentially worse. My nerd would probably break altogether. My odds for finding myself with that opportunity within arms reach are slim, so I won’t worry about that right now. I should probably take care of the watermelons I’ve been carrying.