FANgirl

It’s the late ’80s, and there I am in my Princess Leia t-shirt, my name ironed on in velvet letters, totally owning show and tell with my brother’s Silverhawks action figures.
It’s the early 2000s, and I’m riding to Akron with friends for a comic book convention and we’re discussing Batman graphic novels and why Dark Knight author Frank Miller is a freakin’ genius and the obvious superiority of the vintage green Hulk over a red Hulk. Superman? Total douche bag.
I am fangirl. Femnerd, if you prefer. A girl-geek daywalker. As a kid I moved easily between my hair-crimping friends and playing Zelda with my brother and his friends. I juggled the mandatory pink slumber parties with rousing bouts of GI Joe sessions (my brother had the Space Shuttle!). Paula Abdul and Debbie Gibson reluctantly shared boom box time with Weird Al Yankovic. Today, I hold down two very different jobs and spend as much time searching for the last Spider-Man Blue poster as I do for the right lip gloss.
If you think you could peg me as a nerd if you saw me on the street, you’d be wrong. I’m neither pasty nor pimply faced nor 400 pounds. I don’t dress in clothes I scavenged from a dumpster behind the Salvation Army. And I’m not alone.
Fangirl is cute, but not high maintenance. More feminine than tomboys, we walk the line between “mall sexy” and back-of-the-comic-shop couture. We’re the girls you cheated off of in class, all grown up. We like tight vintage t-shirts and hot designer jeans and Vans. We are not model pretty, but we are hella cute.
Fangirls are not offended or threatened by female comic book characters, with their the enormous boobs and ridiculous asses. Drool all you like — you’ll never meet Aeon Flux, or Six from Battlestar Galactica. We get it, they’re hot. But we’re human. Besides, have you seen the dudes from Supernatural? Lost? Even Harry Potter is looking better and better.
You can take fangirl girlfriend to see the new Rambo. Three times. She will eagerly accompany you to the comic book convention. She will actually suggest going to the Arms and Armor exhibition at the Museum of Art. Why? Because swords are cool. And suits made out of steel? Bad. Ass.
Dudes dig this, big time. We serve their nerdy needs. We can fill out a vintage Chewbacca t-shirt and look sexy in jeans and a pair of Converse. Cute and girly, dirty and tough. (At comic book conventions, I am a supermodel. The ogling and flirting never stops. I get stuff for free, or I get ridiculous deals. Fangirl’s boyfriend suddenly doesn’t want her out of his sight.)
And did I mention that we’re smart? We don’t just read books and watch movies and TV shows, we write backstories for characters and new “episodes” that we dream up (see FanFiction.com, whose content is provided almost entirely by women). We’re still girls, always wanting to know what others — even fictional others — are thinking and feeling.
When I hang out with my non-nerd friends, we talk about “adult” things, like relationships and jobs. But when I get back to my refuge, my “Death Star” (it’s almost fully operational), the nerd is unleashed. GI Joes line one end of a display case, old Hot Wheels the other. I have everything from anime figures to ShirtTales collectibles. I love ’80s toys. They remind me of the pure happiness of Christmas in the single-digit years, zooming my TIE fighter over the brown shag carpet without a care in the world. If that makes me a social outcast, I can live with that. My two prize possessions: a Sloth (from Goonies) action figure (not doll) and a Dwight K. Schrute bobble head, both gifts from my Nerdforce boyfriend. We are also in the process of spray-painting our garbage can to look like R2-D2.
If you are a closeted fangirl, it’s time to come out to your family and friends. Screw ’em if they don’t understand. Take back the Storm Trooper t-shirt you gave to your nephew. Dig out the action figures and comic books you’ve been hiding under your bed since forever. Meet me at the next comic con. Bring me your geek, your nerd, your binary codes. Bring me your pocket protectors and still-in-the-box Kenner toys. Unite. Why should adventures be just for boys? You’re either with us or against us. Resistance is futile. All your base belong to us.