My friends were boy-crazy.
I know the times I would repeatedly recognize this, obsessing over Justin Bieber’s or One Direction’s new song, or squealing about the older boy they would see on the playground. Boy-crazy was the perfect word for it.
But for me, I never had Bieber fever, or an obsession with Harry Styles, or even cared about the older boy on the playground. And yet, I wanted to. I wanted to care about these so-called heartthrobs and the supposedly intriguing and attractive boy on the monkey bars. Why couldn’t I be boy-crazy like everyone else?
The author as a child