I like a girl who gets excited.
She finds a new recipe and needs to go to the store for ingredients right away. (And wants me to call her at the store to remind her exactly what those ingredients are.)
She has to dance. Has. To.
She says “babe” in fourteen different ways. And I figure out what each means.
She works with kids. And sometimes acts like one too.
She has a butt that, despite the work conditions, just won’t quit.
She wears boots. And scarves!
She spends over an hour — and uses numerous post-its — to compile the official list when you ask her what her favourite cheese is.
She changes her shirt just before leaving for work because she suspects that at some point she’ll lift her arms over her head (bank hold-up?) and .03 mm of her stomach will show and that it’ll annoy her.
She likes what she likes. And she doesn’t care what you think.
She remembers the plot of various episodes of Full House.
She doesn’t judge me (too harshly) for knowing Full House catch phrases. (Cut. It. Out.)
She is somehow impressed when she finds out my plans for a Friday night involve watching a documentary on mining the moon as the first step in getting to Mars.
She is smart and sweet and funny and adorable.
I like a girl who will BBM you countless fun pics and stories from an event she’s attending, just so you can feel like you’re part of it, come home to watch football with you, hope your team does well, worry about a recently fired coach, get so sad when a player gets injured, tell you the most charming story from her childhood, snuggle up, wearing mismatched socks on cold feet, take off her glasses, get squinty and freckled-nose scrunchy, half-whisper “I like when you’re happy” and melt you in ways you didn’t know were possible.