He's 20.

I have a crush on a 20-year old. I say I can't figure out how I feel about it, but I know how I feel about it.

I like it.

I like having a really funny story to tell about the first time we hung out outside of our usual meeting space and I was the oldest person there by at least five years. See, he's a musician. I ran into him casually one day after not seeing him for a couple of months and asked how the music was going. The music was going well and they had a show coming up at the Music Farm, which was quite the step up from small college venues where they normally played, I should come. I always tell people I want to see and hear them do their thing and then I never make it. So I checked my calendar and told him I wanted to go, I would go, I was serious. And I meant it. Part of me probably wanted to go because I genuinely have wanted to see people like him, an aquaintance really, doing what they love, learn more about them, let them know that my random interactions with them really are important to me, even if we don't call each other and talk about the serious details of our lives. The other part of me probably wanted to go because I like the way he looks at me.

So a few weeks pass and it's the night of the show. I tried to get a friend to go with me but she bailed. I don't think I cared. Something about him and they way he talks to me helps put me in one of my favorite "zones" - the one where I know I am beautiful, fascinating, complete, complex, perfectly imperfect. I can do no wrong when I'm in this zone, so I can easily stand at a small concert alone, drink my Sierra Nevada, and laugh to myself as I look around and see 22-year-old girls staggering because they had two too many vodkas and 18-year-olds ordering Red Bull's at the bar.

I arrived in the middle of his band's set and he's beautiful on stage. He's the lead singer, playing the guitar, looking peaceful, confident, ignoring or oblivious to the hilarious social interations taking place between the young boys and girls in front of the stage. I can't really understand all his words but the music is pretty impressive for how young he and his band are. My mouth held a smile for the duration of the show and wondered if I couldn't take my eyes off the singer because that's just where one looks when they are at a concert or if I was developing a crush on this boy still in college. And if I was developing a crush on this young singer was it simply because I develop a crush on every single singer at every single concert I go to.

His set ends and the stage crew begins to set up for the headliner. I hang in my same spot, beginning to feel a little awkward for the first time as I think about being able to find him after the show, is it normal that I came, will he be weird, will I act weird, will it be totally cool, like, "oh, I said I would come, so I'm here, it was great, okay I'm off to go back to my older, mature, very adult, busy life, see ya later, great job, see ya around, buddy." I feel like I had to wait for a long time, working to stay in the aforementioned zone. But there he came from behind, down the stairs I was leaning up against. When he came face to face with me he didn't look surprised or uncomfortable, just pleased. "You came," he said, brown eyes, soft smile. It was perfect. I told him the show was great, I was impressed, come, let's go over here so I can hear you talk. We talked through the length of the headliner's show, about what, I don't even know. I know he carried the weight of the conversation, kept it flowing, asking questions, offering information about band members, family, friends. Oh, yes, this is where I learn he is not 23 as I had hoped but, "well, technically not of-age." I don't think much about this fact at the time. I touch him casually, but frequently at various points in the conversation and I liked it. I like it now just thinking about it. We laughed a fair amount I think, and I told a not-that-cool story in efforts to get him to know this particular thing about me that probably just seemed weird since the story wasn't introduced properly. When I asked if he was optimistic about his rockstar career he responded yes, he had done a lot of theater in highschool (wow, like 2 years ago) so performing came natural to him, but he did a lot of sports, too, as in, I'm not just a theater guy, I'm also an athlete. This particular response made me think/hope he was wanting me to know him also, because he, too was developing a crush, and not just because he was keeping conversation flowing.

The time came for him to man his band's merchandise booth, thus for me to go. Of course I need a t-shirt before I do. I feel like this was one of the more prominent times in my mind where I was sending the "I'm just supporting a friend, I'm not trying to date someone seven years younger than me" vibe. I hate that I'm such a pansy that I had to send that vibe at all, at any time. I get my neon blue and yellow shirt and pretend I don't know if I will ever wear it because it's so bright. He gets my number, thank goodness, because "well, he doesn't have it." I tell him again he was great, this was fun, see you later.

I get in my car, put in the cd that came with the shirt purchase and analyze my thoughts and feelings of the moment. His voice fills the car and it's smooth and soft and clean and beautiful, much better than the show. I know at this point he writes all their songs so I listen carefully to the words to see what's on his heart. I'm a girl, and a romantic one who is 27 and single and excitable and passionate and loves loving people and dreams of one day having that man who drives her crazy because she loves him so much. I do these things and am these things but the corresponding emotions are so dear to me that I like to let my logical mind keep them at bay most of the time to keep from being hurt or disppointed. So with this sweet man's sweet music filling my car I ever so carefully allow my thoughts to go. To admit that I would absolutely love to marry a musician. To be the girl in the crowd who watches her man on stage and is so proud. Proud of his talent. Proud he has pursued and worked for something he loved. Proud to be his. To support him. To tell him how amazing he is. Proud to know him better than anyone else in the crowd. To be the girl he comes home to. The girl he writes about and asks for input on songs and lyrics. The girl who is buried in his heart and entwined in his veins no matter how many girls sit and stare up at him as he serenades the world. The 30-year-old that gets to take the 23-year-old home, much to the dismay of the 17 and 18-year-olds. That last part has never been explicit in the dream, but it was there today.

My thoughts are going, gently, carefully, but truly. Focusing on the dream of crazy love, not necessarily the reality of dating someone who is still not old enough to drink. My phone buzzes, telling me I have a text message.\

"Thanks again, Nicole. I'm glad you came."

Yeah. Me, too.