OK, I am the first one to admit it: I am too old to have a celebrity crush. The last time it was cute or acceptable for me to fangirl over a movie star was back in the late 1980s. Since then I’ve been busy with other stuff in life — finishing school, growing up, finding a career, falling in love, having a family. No time for silly crushes here.
But then last spring something happened. I guess a bunch of things happened, none of them pleasant: several deaths in my family and circle of friends, a move to a new city, tensions with my parents, and a nagging feeling that I was somehow shutting down and allowing life to pass me by.
I needed an escape. Sure, there was yoga, and chocolate, and wine, and plenty of friends and family around me for support. But my brain wanted to focus on something — or somebody — that had nothing to do with what was going on in my life. And so I spent many, many sleepless nights in the company of Benedict Cumberbatch, with his handsome, talented face glowing on my iPad screen in the darkness of my bedroom. Trust me, there is no better company at 3 a.m. when your mind is full of scary grown-up stuff.