At my fourteen-year-old cousin’s insistance, and because I would do just about anything for her, (barring getting up a 4:30 in the morning to go shopping on Black Friday–unh-uh!) I finally started reading “Twilight” by Stephanie Meyer. I have once again come to the conclusion that I am just not an “alpha male” sort of girl. The too-perfect-scary-strong-angst-filled-superhero who feels the constant need to remind the poor, frail, adorably-clumsy-unatheletic-vulnerable-heroine of how dangerous he is is just NOT my cup of tea. Sorry, Dellers.

Still, I find the book itself to be startlingly like its hero; you know it’s a disaster, you know you shouldn’t get involved, but it DOES draw you in–after the first couple chapters, at least. Yes, I will finish the book, and feed the Twilight machine by buying and reading the rest of them. And yes, I will snicker at Edward and Bella’s inane, overblown tiffs laced with deep teenage intensity. But deep down inside, where a fourteen-year-old girl who views romance as a mythic adventure and boys as a beautiful but dangerous alien species resides, I will feel a little thrill at the excitement of the forbidden romance, the dangerous desire and impossible perfection.

It will be a very small thrill, but I would be lying if I said it wasn’t there at all. I can see the attraction of the books, especially for young girls who very often prefer the fantasy of the impossible to the very real danger of the possible. All in all, Edward Cullen is a very safe boy for teenage girls to fall in love with. And if he can keep my cousin happily distracted until she is at an age where she can deal maturely with human boys, I just might kiss his face myself.