I am not the sort of woman who goes around rescuing people. I am a miserable hero. Just last month, some kid on a bike flipped himself over the hood of my car. I kept on driving, only after peering out my window to be sure there wasn’t any blood on my windshield. 

It wasn’t always this way: I used to be the conquering hero of my family. When my sisters were little, I would fearlessly tie on my imaginary cape - the loveliest crimson frock in the land - and lay siege to the neighbor boys’ tree castle at even the faintest whisper of danger, ill will or evil doings. Unless it involved bugs or a snake. 

I bruised many a knee in my day - my own and those belonging to gangly trouble makers. My father taught me to fight for myself and I took him quite literally. I pushed one neighbor kid out of his tree house when I was 10. I think he broke his arm… I think he tried to kiss me… I think—I think his mother was pretty mad. 

Then boys stopped being smelly toads. I wanted to touch their arm instead of bite it [which is strange because I find them smelly again, and I can think of several that I’d like to take a bite out of]. A few were still interested in holding my hand, even after I beat them to the top of the hill in a foot race from the bus stop. But it never seemed as grownup and serious as everyone else. In 6th grade my friend asked me if I was going out with a boy. She asked if I had kissed him.

“Why would I want to do that?” I said. 

“He writes you notes, doesn’t he?”

“So what? He has terrible handwriting,” I said. 

I never once cried over a boy until I was old enough to know better. My friend Leah cried over a boy when we were 13, and I thought it meant that she must really understand the world. That, or she was incredibly dramatic. While she sobbed next to me in the movie theater, I watched My Best Friend’s Wedding and shoved popcorn in my face, trying to decide how Dermot Mulroney got that scar. It was the first time I’d ever seen a boy make a girl cry when it didn’t involve a game of kickball, and I wasn’t sure that it made me feel any different than when one of those neighbor kids tried to kick my baby sister in the shin. I wanted to dig around inside for that cape and shove the stupid kid’s face in the dirt. 

Later, I experienced my own share of heart-crunching boy drama. Took a baseball bat to a few windshields and some eggs to a second story window on my own behalf. Held a few girlfriends back from slapping a college boyfriend when they ran into him, drunk, at the bar. Ripped the phone from their hands as they tried to dog cuss the fool who had me wrapped around his finger. It was a time when any friend worth having would kick a mean boy in the junk for me as soon as I’d do it for her. Thankyousomuch, Carrie Underwood. 

But growing up happens in the dead of night, so you can’t see it change you. Now, I’m afraid of heights and wouldn’t be caught dead in a cape unless it’s Michael Kors. Now I know that not everyone wants to be rescued. And not everyone needs someone to fight their battles. Grown up heroes have it hard; you can’t push every stupid boy out of his tree house - when they call you names, break your sister’s heart and crush your friend’s feelings. Even when you really, really want to. Even when they deserve a hard fall.

Just in case, I think I’ll have that red cape dry cleaned.