... About Being Friends with Boys

The first time I can remember being disciplined by someone other than my mother was in kindergarten. My teacher, Ms. Bezner, put me in timeout for being friends with a boy. Specifically, a boy named Bryce Furgeson, who used his ineffable boyness to coerce me into staying at the art corner instead of joining our classmates on the story rug. We were united by our affection for making clay snakes, and remained friends until the day I moved away.

Most of my elementary school memories involve Bryce, along with Matthew Wood, Greg Pierce, and Gregory Hestla - making gravel alligators, flying backwards from the swings, rainy day Matchbox car washes. I never really went through a "ew, cooties!" stage, and although my friends did they assured me that I was not like a real girl, and therefore unaffected by the disease of my kind.

On evenings and weekends I'd play with the other little girls on my street, but during school it was a different story. I didn't like them, they didn't like me. I was perfectly okay with it, because the boys were more fun to play with, anyway.

I never realized the problem this held until junior high. Suddenly everybody was getting all... giggly... myself, included. I got a massive crush on one of my best friends. He was just so cute in that floppy-haired 12-year-old way, and the best part was that we were friends! I could just walk up and talk to him whenever I wanted, without worry that he would think it weird or awkward. I could hang out with him, I could hug him, I could flirt with him, and at the end of the day I could use the "we're friends" excuse to save myself from embarrassment.

Then it happened. One day, he nervously whispered that he wanted to ask me something. My little heart pounded anxiously. He explained that he liked this girl (who happened to be one of the few females I got along with). He knew I was friends with her, so could I help him? What should he say, what should he do? Did I think she liked him back? He was so glad he could ask me, because I was not like a real girl. I was a friend.

I was crushed. So I did what any logical and mature 12-year-old would do. I wrote him an angry email blaming him for every heartache I had ever known, and assuring him that any feelings I had for him were a mistake on my part because he was obviously unworthy of my affection, and I guaranteed I would promptly forget about him.

Take that, you floppy-haired loser.

Unfortunately, you could change my age and the name of the boy, and the above story could apply to most of the next decade. Time and time again, I found myself in the same situation. It seemed every time I liked a boy, he'd ask me for advice on how to woo another girl. I've been told I'm "not like a girl" by boys I've liked so many times I've literally lost count.

What is it about me that's so un-girly? Sure, I like to watch sports and even know the rules. So I prefer keeping a wallet in my back pocket to hefting a purse around everywhere. Yeah, I'm not big on dresses, and try as she might Angela is never going to get me to make lipstick part of my daily routine. I'm rational, so sue me. But I'm still a girl! I'm a sucker for cute shoes. I confide in a carton of Ben & Jerry's after a bad day. I even painted my nails last night (with clear polish, but it still counts, right?). Back in high school, my male friends insisted that I was a great catch - for somebody else. I just wasn't their type, but all the other boys were sure to come clamoring. None of them seemed to recognize the irony in that.

I guess I can't complain too much. If being a non-girl was the key to some of my greatest friendships, so be it. But still I wonder if being a non-non-girl would have gotten me a date to the prom.

I blame Bryce Furgeson. That fateful day in the art corner, his ineffable boyness must have somehow tainted me (ew, cooties!).