Celebrity Obsession Disorder is Genetic

It's 1:45 AM and I'm sitting at my desk, about to spill a dark secret about my mother, my wife, her mother, and me. This is why it's never a good idea to write tired, but there you go and here I sit. You see, I have become only slightly obsessed with a certain female star of a certain movie that might be about a human-vampire romance.

Okay, okay -- it's Kristen Stewart, the leading lady of Twilight and love of my-life-that-doesn't-exist (and I can say that only because my wife has confessed a similar obsession with Robert Pattinson, Kristen's counterpart in Twilight).

I can't understand it. I have never been so ridiculously consumed by unholy thoughts and dreams of a woman that I will probably never even meet, not to mention the fact that I am (quite happily) married. Oh yes -- before I continue, she is legal, and I'm only 24, so no cracks about me being a dirty old man.

I don't know how to explain it. As I stood outside tonight, looking up at the stars and asking God why I have developed so strange an affliction, a connection formed in my mind, sounding much like the satisfying click that the buckle of a straight jacket might make: I got it from my mother.

You see, my mom developed some years past an almost identical crush on a fella' named Christopher Meloni (Law and Order: Special Victims Unit, Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle). My father, brothers, and I refer to him simply as "man-kisser" due to his role in the prison drama, Oz. All this time, I thought my mother to be just a bit crazy -- really, what's a grown, married woman and mother of three doing with a school-girl crush on an actor (and man-kisser)? Tonight I realized that, indeed, she is a bit crazy and, without question, so am I. At least I come by it honest.

My wife and her mother (God rest her soul) shared this disorder, as well. Her mother had a life-long obsession with Patrick Swayze (as did many, I suppose, after that infernal spawn of Satan, Dirty Dancing). My wife in her turn (and as already mentioned) has taken to Robert Pattinson. I found out one day when working on her laptop. I logged in and, lo and behold, found myself looking at the oh-so-dreamy hair of RPatt, himself.

Relieved to know I was not alone, I confronted my dear wife, who shrugged the incident off. "Just a cute guy," said she, but the disorder soon became clear in her, too -- I will forever swear that it was she who suggested we go see Twilight a second time and who tried to hide her swooning through the entire screening. Maybe it's viral and not genetic, but at least I'll never know which one of us gave it to the other if that's the case.

To any other folks out there who suffer from this condition, too, rest easy -- you are not alone! There are at least five of us, and that makes a crowd plus two! I think it high-time Congress invested a few tax-payer dollars figuring out what's wrong with us and how to correct the issue.

Until then, I suppose I'll just have to live with dreams of KStew and me, knowing well that my wife is dreaming similarly of RPatt and my mother of, eh, CMelon. I'm certain as well that my wonderful mother-in-law is dancing dirty-style with a heavenly conjuration of Patrick Swayze -- she certainly earned it.

And Kristen, if you read this, my wife said it's okay if you and I run off together, but only if you get Rob to take her away, too. Here's to hoping!

Originally posted at The Aspiring Professional.