Love Actually by Deb Anna

Okay, this is the topic that made me seriously reconsider whether or not I can be a part of this whole Deb thing. See, my biggest insecurity in life — and trust me, this one has a lot of competition — is that I don’t understand love (anyone who knows about my other life as a sex and relationship expert can hopefully appreciate the irony of this). And in this ball of ours, I thought, what could the lone single deb possibly have to offer?

Should I write about N.L. (initials only, my friends — in this Google age of ours, the last thing I need is my grade school crush emailing and telling me he just read my blog entry about him), who occupied the bulk of my thoughts from ages five to 10, who was always Danny to my Sandy in my Grease fantasies, and who, the last time I ran into him, over a decade ago — at a gas station near Lake Tahoe, of all places — had grown a full Jesus of Nazareth beard?

Or maybe I should tell you how much I loved T.H., the first celebrity to be the recipient of my displaced and needy adolescent yearnings. The problem, of course, is that I never actually met T.H., so the only things I could tell you about him were what I recall from the pages of Tiger Beat. But oh do I remember how I’d feel when I caught sight of him in the pages of that magazine: I’d be captivated, gripped, almost panic-stricken, and I wouldn’t know what to do with those feelings besides tape the pictures to my bedroom walls and kiss them. (He wasn’t even a good actor and, by the way, I’d bet most anyone reading this has never even heard of him. Any guesses? Hint: He was in an ensemble movie in the early 80s that also starred Tom Cruise.)

I could get serious and write about the real love I experienced with J.M. and J.J., but that would be a bit intense for New Year’s Day (actually, New Year’s Eve afternoon for me) when I have a ball to get dressed for and a gown to put on (kidding, I’m going to a play).

Angst, trauma, drama, insanity — these are things I’m good at writing about. Love? Not so much. So how about this? I love all of you who are reading this (I’m serious and, since I’m sober, you know I’m not being overly sentimental because I’ve already cracked into the evening’s supply of champagne). I love my fellow debs and the women who leave comments here and anyone that champions female writers chronicling their lives as one of their main dreams comes true.

And that’s not only because I don’t think any of you will someday decide to grow Jesus of Nazareth beards.