Ode to a Hamilton

I would never call myself superficial in the strict sense. Yes, I sometimes joke about how I'm looking for a sugar daddy; a guy to foot the bill every time I need him to and to spoil me with the toys and trinkets I deserve. But, I never thought I'd go so literal as to develop a crush on a person who physically graces a greenback I use almost daily.

It's been a joke for a couple of months now that I am a fan of the re-design of the $10 bill. When I get change back, it's disappointing if there are two-$5 bills or a $5 bill and five $1 bills instead. I take my time when using them, taking care to save them as long as possible since it is a rare occurrence that someone so pretty is tucked inside my wallet; someone who probably belongs on a wall somewhere tacked next to a page ripped out of an Abercromie & Fitch catalog or inside a young girls locker, next to a vanity mirror for compare-and-contrast purposes. What I'm trying to say is that the reason I'm a big fan of this re-design is because it's made Alexander Hamilton quite pretty. He's more than pretty, in all honesty, surpassing any of those lucky few who decorate American money, including the poignant and haunting representation of a Sacajaweia or the ruddy good looks of a JFK. Now possessing a stronger jaw-line, a less-pronounced brow, hollowed-out supermodel cheekbones, and a less, shall we say, frou-frou collar, Alexander is as close to breathtaking as a founding father could possibly be.

I'm so excited by this that even if I am with the snarkiest of friends (and trust me, I have quite a few of them) or even family members who I tend to keep all inklings of strange obsessions or personal idiosyncrasies from for fear that they'd use it as ammunition later, I have lost all traces of embarrassment during transactions. It takes a lot longer to buy a pack of gum or a six-pack of beer because I take time to smooth out the creases in the bill if it's grown particularly wrinkly. I sigh wistfully and stare longingly at dear Alex. I fiercely defend him when an especially vicious friend decides that it would be funny to point out he died in a duel. But, usually my defense of this falls upon deaf ears and people just look at me in a "oh, she cant be serious, can she?!?!" sort of way whenever I tuck the bill just inside my shirt and underneath the strap of my bra where it's closer to my heart for just a moment.

Generally, I get upset when people make fun of me. I tend to be a little too sensitive when my passion for a particular movie or television show or book goes unnoticed or if people make a joke of it. You'd think that I would get really upset when someone goes for the easy laugh like with those duel remarks, but it doesn't undermine my devotion. I can brush it off to confusion or pure misunderstanding. Obviously, it's gotten a little obsessive and I understand if you think I'm a little insane. Or, maybe I don't care because this level of fascination I have for Alexander Hamilton has surpassed the original shallow intentions of thinking he's just super dreamy into an Edith-Wharton-esque fixation on what I can never have but will always want.

Really, though, I just wonder why no one has thought to create a giant life-size incarnation of A.H. and present it to me, so I won't bother them anymore with my strange love and could keep it in the safety of my apartment. It's something I hope for every single day.