Crushed. Not.

A little dream I've been nurturing for a few years died this week. My 'second husband' is no longer in the running for my tear-stained hand.

He's not that upset about it, I'd wager, since I sincerely hope he never knew he was on my crazy list. But still, it's disappointing, and it all came down to one unconscious little move.

I have been crushing on this guy since I talked to him for about ten minutes one morning some six years ago. He is bright, engaged with the world, sweet and handsome and athletic and just... lovely. I told my husband I was harbouring the crush, saying that if by some confluence of tragedy I was widowed and if my crush's wife and children were somehow lost at sea, I was going to 'go for it'. Long suffering Sweetie sighed and vowed to haunt me, but in the end, acquiesced with a mumbled, "Whatever".

Since then, I've added another awesome guy to my 'replacement husband' list. Number Three's wife is on my curling team and she has graciously allowed that if she's gone and all their children are gone, and my husband is also dead, I'm more than welcome to make a move on her man. It's very accommodating of her, don't you think?

And it might become a distant possibility, as Number Two is suddenly no longer of any interest to me. Oh, he's still super smart and handsome and seems really caring, engaged and nice, but on Wednesday as I drove along Hume street, I saw him walking his dog and he blew his nose onto the sidewalk. No tissue; just a good old Canadian one-finger sideways honk.

And just like that, the crush was over. I'm out.