Langston hit me on Wednesday to ask my professional opinion on what I thought was common knowledge. "Do women get nervous when they like a guy?" he wanted to know.

"Um, I guess," I wrote back. I don’t, but I’m sure there are women who do. In the moment, I couldn't remember the last time I'd cared enough to actually have butterflies. Mr. Ex, maybe? (I was so jumpy at a lunch in 2005 that I knocked a glass off the table while he was in the bathroom.) That's not to say I haven't genuinely liked anyone since his departure, but as a general habit, I don't really get nervous over dudes. Stressed? Perhaps, but never nervous. I mean I’m damn-near thirty. My antsy days over dudes are long behind me.

"Do guys at our age still get nervous ?" I typed. ( I forgot to ask what inspired his query. )

Before Langston could respond about that, he realized it was time for us to meet for lunch in the atrium to people-watch. By the time we got up, we'd moved on to different subject matter.

Him: What percentage of women out here do you think are not wearing panties?

Me: I'm not a dude. I’ve never thought about it.

The following evening, I bail on meeting up with friends to attend the Jose Cuervo event on the rooftop of the Hudson. I hadn't been to the gym in a week and I could see the difference. I do two miles for endurance, another grueling, incremental uphill run for a mile to build my legs, then crunches until it's way past painful. (Summer’s coming, dammit!) I look a wreck by the time I'm done. And by the time I get to the locker room only to discover I left my flip-flops at home and can't take a shower, I'm pissed. Just horrendous and angry and funky and sweaty too.

It would be just my luck to leave the locker room and run into my biggest crush coming up the stairs. Me and this dude hung out for a minute when we did and for the couple months or so we interacted, it was cool. No fights, no arguments, all good times and easy living just the way I like it—until I realized he was also kicking it with a chick that I knew of. Suddenly this made things complicated for me. I realized I was catching feelings and we clearly weren't on the same page. One early Sunday morning after I’d put two and two together, I was taking a walk in Brooklyn and bumped into him a block or so from her house. He lives deep in Flatbush and nowhere near where I ran into him. (I didn’t say a word about what I knew. We weren’t in a relationship so it wasn’t my place.) Instead of complicating everything with a long talk about feelings, I decided it would be to our advantage if I just fell back. I figured it was for the best as I wanted us to always be how we were at our best—light, simple, easy.He hit me a couple days after I’d run into him that random time and I told him we shouldn't hang out anymore, assured him that he'd done nothing wrong and that I was trying to get focused on one of the 50 million projects I was working on. Not entirely dishonest, just not wholly true. I’m pretty sure he didn’t understand where this was coming from, but true to form, he respected my wishes and things between us stayed light, simple easy. It was exactly what I wanted.

The only small problem was because we’d never had a big blow out that killed all my feelings and interest in him, I still liked him. And his continued respect and easy demeanor when we encountered each other, made my like morph into some weird crush. It got so bad that I turned into a thirteen- year- old around this dude, hanging on his every word and trying not to gaze like a puppy at him. I like to think myself articulate most days, around him, I could/can barely get words out. I advocate daily for women speaking in their big- girl voice, but around him I squeak. I say all that to say there is probably no other person in New York proper that I care about looking decent in front of except him-- and I looked a hot ass mess.

Someone grabs my shoulder, I look up to discover it’s Him…and I get butterflies. Stripped of my heels and the accompanying strut, my hair looking raggedy and being in sweats and blotting perspiration with a towel and exhausted and caught off guard, I was without any of my external accessories to boost my external swag when the internal is running low (and in that moment it was. I was deep in thought about my life’s direction the whole time I was running. Looking in the full-length mirror at the locker room Exit didn't help.) He of course, looked flawless, as usual. (F*cker. LOL!)

For the worst two minutes ever, we exchanged small talk outside the gym. He was effortlessly confident, as usual, and I managed to stumble over my words and give awkward responses to everything he said. At one woefully pitiful moment, I realized I was absentmindedly shielding half my face from him with my gym towel. I was literally trying to hide. When he walked off in one direction and I went the other, I was beyond embarrassed at my inability to get myself together. For the whole, long train ride back to Brooklyn, every time I replayed our encounter (basically the whole ride), I wanted to kick myself.

What the hell was that, I wondered. How can I be damn-near 30 and still getting nervous over a dude? Go figure. I guess I’m not as immune to butterflies as I thought.