And he shall be called The Normal One

I’ve started listening to Rod Stewart again.

I realize the word “again” is probably alarming enough for most people, but let’s just accept my misguided middle school years for what they were, and move on to more important points.

Like the fact that I met a boy.

I'm one of those girls that loves The Nile. Or, ahem, excuse me, denial. I've never been to the The Nile. I'm not sure I would like it. I'm sure there's snakes there.

Typically when I like a guy, I don't realize it (or rather, admit it to myself, much less other people) until John Denver's "Dreamland Express" comes streaming across my iPod at the Y, and instead of hostilely clicking my way to something much more gymly, I get this ridiculous look on my face and proceed to search for my "It Must Be Love" playlist-- complete with Celine Dion, Bryan Adams, Norah Jones...

and yes. John Stamos' 'Forever.' What's love without a little Uncle Jesse?

Typically it takes at least five trips to the drinking fountain by the man that does the most ridiculous strength training workout ever-- and five quizzical looks from him somehow asking, "Is that girl going through some sort of strange seizure? The delighted look on her face is plain supernatural. Perhaps she's overpedaling" for me to realize that there's a new man in my life. And then it takes me a couple weeks to openly admit it to myself and then my closest circle of friends.

Which I officially did Friday. And this time it's a nice guy. One that can legally drink and isn’t even over 30—and amazingly enough, doesn’t proposition me. He just sends really sweet and interesting long emails. Every day.

I repeat. Every day. Who knew normal and sweet could be so refreshing?