Krisiruth

Boy crazy.

It’s an attribute i’ve pinned to my personality, one that has been haunting me since I was a child, chasing boys around the playground, secretly hoping they would want to chase me too.

In middle school, I adored a boy named Mark, he had these big cow brown eyes and could spend hours pulling faces and quoting Calvin and Hobbes; two things I considered very refined in a fellow thirteen year old. He went to my church so I only saw him twice a week. However, his name had a special place in the margins of my notebook at school. Doodled in with hearts and the occasional 3D cross, I was really good at drawing 3D crosses.

In High School I started going to a new church, but I ran into him at a concert. At the time I was with a friend, the “pretty one” in our friend group, and this did not go unnoticed by him. A few weeks went by and our trio adventures began to taper off until I noticed I wasn’t being invited at all.

I remember feeling pretty low about the whole situation, but thought my hurt was covered proficiently with cheesy smiles. Apparently I was not as much of a vault as I thought, I can remember him MySpacing me, while he and my friend were dating. It was his attempt at consoling me for not getting the big prize (him), he recommended I cool it on the boy crazy-ness  so that someday God’s plan could unfold in my life.

Blah. That is the only word I can think to sum up his little MySpace lecture. 

I thought, “HOW DARE YOU ACCUSE ME OF LIKING BOYS ALOT! I am the picture of discretion, the model of poise and mystery.”

Well, maybe I wasn’t so discreet and poised. But his accusation cut into me, it made me feel like I was silly and undesirable as a clingy goggly eyed girl. Like something was wired wrong in me, for liking boys, or maybe if I didn’t have crushes on boys I might be more intelligent, or “in God’s plan.”

Perhaps he was right, a little, but the phrase “boy crazy” is a label I have not been fond of or able to shake, even ten years later.

It’s also a label only I seem to put on myself. No one, to my knowledge thinks I am a mentally deranged boy maniac.

I keep coming back to the question of why do I think I am I so boy crazy? Each time I try to dig a little deeper into why I have this habit of liking boys so much, I come back with,

“It’s the way I am!”

Biology agrees with me. It’s within our nature to be attracted to people. It’s no secret.

Why do I feel the phrase “boy crazy” is tacked onto my personality? I don’t think it’s just a one time Myspace post from a sixteen year old boy, but an internal insecurity, one that I have let whisper vehemently in my ear for years.

“Krisi, you’re crazy, no one wants you, why would you think they would?” This is what I hear in my head.

I’m tired of letting this label paralyze me if a boy finds out I like him, it’s not abnormal or a reason to be sent off for treatment.

It’s the way I am, it’s the way we all are.

A friend told me recently, “Krisi, you are every age you have ever been, six year old Krisi is built on sixteen year old Krisi is built on twenty-six year old Krisi.”

I think I’ve convinced myself that the child Krisi, who chased boys on the playground is something to be ashamed of, that she doesn’t have value to add to me now. But I am learning she wasn’t crazy, she was right where she should have been.

Do I run around a coffee shop chasing the attractive bearded men now? No. Do I fight with said men on Myspace threads about my attraction to them keeping me from God’s will? Nope. (Besides, Myspace is so over.)

I have grown out of those habits, but I have grown into who I am now, a flirty, smiley version, with a healthy desire to date, and be in relationship. And this is the perfect place for me.

At least, I haven’t had any friends sit me down for a boy intervention. Yet. 

People cannot see the ghosts haunting my conscience, the unfair labels. I might not be able to totally erase the ghostly whispers shaming me, but I can take away their power by simply acknowledging that they exist.

This might help me see them for what they are, lies.

Twenty-six year old Krisi has a lot to offer, and a lot to give. That doesn’t make me crazy. Passionate? Yes. Romantic? I think so.

I’m alright with these descriptors. They have a ring of truth to them.

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