The ramblings that appear when I'm driven to write what's in my head, rather than what's in someone else's.
James Dean. Charlie Sheen. Hugh Hefner. Okay, I’m not good at picking out famous “bad boys.” I’m much better at picking them out in my low-profile life.
What’s a bad boy? Someone who wants the world to think he doesn’t need anyone. Someone who doesn’t send you flowers. Someone who doesn’t apologize, who knows what they want and how to get it and isn’t too concerned about who gets hurt along the way. Who’s going to get hurt? Me.
Why would a girl want one of those? Sounds like misery to me. And it is.
But here’s the deal.
Girls (okay, me) see some appeal in the guy who doesn’t need anyone. He’s strong. He can take care of me. And for a while, he does. He makes me feel special, because he doesn’t treat me like he treats everyone else. He needs me. He is gentle and thoughtful when he’s with me. He doesn’t call me names, or say bad things about me. And that means I’m special. Those silly nice guys treat everyone the same. I’m not special.
And we want to change them. We know it hasn’t happened, that no one has turned the bad boy into the nice guy, and if they did, we wouldn’t want him anymore. But we want to be one worth changing for. We want to be the one person in the whole, wide world who makes them want to settle down, watch the news and read the paper. And maybe once in a while that girl does come along. Maybe that ending does happen.
People can change, right?
I can. But not enough.
But most of the time the chrome wears off the bad boy, and the ruby-red enamel chips on the good girl, and I’m frustrated and he’s wondering why I’m unhappy. And then I realize that someday, he’ll treat me like he treats his mother.
And I run like hell.