Now that I am a woman I am done with boys. By “boys” I am not referring to braces-wearing, acne-bearing, teenage males. I am referring to the typical male species, mainly 30-40 years of age, who happen to fade in and out of my life as quickly as my tan.
There have been many. And in general, minus a couple really incredible exceptions, they remain nameless. My friends and family know of them only by the nicknames I create for them. They are known simply as boys. For example, “the singing boy” or “the photographer boy” or “the cute boy” or, my favorite, “the [insert nationality of the month] boy.”
But I am done with boys. I am done with the Peter Pan and Lost Boys types that make motherly Wendys or emotionally unstable Tinkerbells out of me. Like Wendy, I’ve finally reached the realization that Neverland is not for me. And this is not because Neverland is unattractive. On the contrary, it’s a great destination for an extended holiday. But if you take a look at the couple of females permanently residing there (Tinkerbell and Tiger Lily mainly) they suffer from something that not even the forces of Neverland’s power can break through: a woman’s instinct and need to love and be loved, exclusively and long-term. The lack of commitment and proper attention from Peter turn these two female characters into vindictive, jealous and ill-behaved female energies. And I really don’t want to become one of them.
So I am done with boys, these uncertain guys whose own fears and confusions unintentionally, yet rudely, awaken the insecure little girl inside of me. This woman (me) is getting stronger and much more confident about what she wants. I want a secure, available and fearless man whose confidence and decisiveness will only reinforce my own. I no longer care if he can fly or fight pirates. I now find a man who knows what he wants much more attractive than a boy in tights.