Single sex schools have always made me nervous and I’m historically not a fan of female-only anything. Women slap, we slander, we’re backstabbing gossips—one episode of “The Bachelor” and you’d have to agree. But this penchant for petty drama isn’t a new phenomenon: from Bible stories to the Bennett family, women have battled over bloodlines and boyfriends, wardrobes and wedding dates. Ann Jones, the criminal profiler, once wrote, “The story of women who kill is the story of women.” While we may not all face problems and think “pistol,” it’s generally acknowledged that where there’s smoke, there’s female. If a group of men get together we call it a team, but when a group of women gathers, guys start buying ringside seats.

These stereotypes might be blamed on DNA and social evolution, a genetic leaning toward jealousy that was exacerbated by ancient traditions of polygamy and the monthly curse of PMS. Multiple mistresses and menstrual cycles? No wonder we’re known for mood swings and swinging fists.

I should be all too familiar with this brattiness and those bruised egos. Between two sisters and several roommates, I should be outright sick of Midol and melodrama. Tired of Greek sororities and female societies (Kappa Beta Bee what?). Dozens of dames in a dorm—I must be requesting damage control.

But I’m not. In spite of our bad reputation and my own hesitation, having a close circle of female friends was the best part of my fall. We have a book group and several breakfast clubs. We dine out and venture downtown. We’re big on dating and Degas, know the Starbucks staff by name, and are happy doing most anything together, simply NO BOYS ALLOWED. These same three words, in careful pink cursive, decorated the front of my backyard barn, circa summer 1996. While there may no longer be such signage today, testosterone is once again being checked at the door.

And I mean that literally: a female finals club finally has a threshold of their own and rumors of a women’s center continue to resurface. Perhaps the tides are turning (the crimson one, not so much) and we’re all finally maturing; the novelty of boys is wearing off and the need for better friends building up. But I’m not certain we can completely attribute the growth of girl groups to getting older. It’s not just age, but era as well. We now have dough in the bank (thanks, affirmative action), no longer have upwards of five children (shout out to Margaret Sanger) and have single older women as role models (Carrie, you’re a star).

Bradshaw and the other women of “Sex and the City” may actually have jump-started the recent rebirth of girls’ clubs by making chats over pancakes and stories on the sidewalk suddenly cool. Each woman faced her own problems—mostly men, marriage, and Manolos—but throughout the series the foursome managed to solve them together, testosterone free. Maybe Maureen Dowd’s latest book proposes a question more credible than critics believe: are men really necessary? I mean, now that we have our own social space and can already artificially inseminate, why don’t we just bag the boys and tote around hormones with our house keys?

I thought about this possibility further while having lunch with a few friends recently, ladies of course. One girl was relating how she had wickedly terrorized a lad on instant messenger the night before. That was only after we had figured out just exactly what her crush’s aloof demeanor in Lamont the other day really mean. It was during this conversation when I realized that even if we have real estate, dating advice, and reproduction covered, only boys can provide the drama that inspires our all too often romantic ruminations.

I’ll be honest, at least half of girl time is spent on guy chat—we analyze what really makes them tick, the goal of their game, the size of their… heart. Beware the chap trap: they take over conversation whether at the table or not. Which means it doesn’t matter that we neither rely upon their clubs nor look to them for cash. In the end, we actually need, might even bond over, all that confusion they provide.

Haven’t we always?

Even if all-girls is suddenly in style, obsessing over boys appears to be a timeless tradition, one looking to stick around. And this is what I’m tired of. Not the company of girls, but our tendency to talk about dates over Dante and sweet nothings before news-briefings. Can’t we focus on our personal accomplishments (good dates and great catches excluded) instead of harping on our male attachments? I propose, for this new year, a new club with one new rule: No Boy Talk Allowed. (At least sometimes).



Victoria B. Ilyinsky ’07 is a romance languages and literatures concentrator in Leverett House. Her column appears regularly.