Oh Sir Guy...You Killer of Babies You

It’s a shameful day in my existence. There I am on the couch, just trying to do a little recoup before the semester gets back into full swing watching Robin Hood. It’s a fantastic show; I don’t know if the Brits do it better because it’s their story or because the BBC is, in general, more classy TV than what we got over here. Regardless I’m really loving the show, life, and most especially the part where I’m on the couch.

As I watch I’m reviled by the Sheriff of Nottingham who is like a short, midget version of Tim Curry and Alan Rickman shoved together; I’m disgusted by the Sir Guy of Gisborne, an undeniably more charismatic character than the Prince of Thieves version, but still appropriately evil. I’m thrilled by Robin and his band of merry men. The writing is good, the action invigorating, and the show is simply, overall, thoroughly entertaining.

And then the unthinkable happens...

Sir Guy of Gisborne looks up with his piercing blue eyes and his stubble-ridden jaw and his dark, dark hair and I feel a hitch just behind my rib cage. But this guy takes his illegitimate child and leaves it in the forest to lure Robin into a trap. There’s no way I’m going to find myself suddenly attracted to a character like this. And then the kitchen maid (the same one he lied to about giving the child a happy home to) says “you don’t know him like I do” and I scream at myself (SCREAM) that lines such as that, even when paired with icy blue eyes and stubble-ridden jaws are simply the way we talk ourselves into trouble. I’m too smart to think that a man who leaves his illegitimate child in the forest has a good side! I would never find myself fantasizing about strong jaws lined in stubble! THOSE ARE THE ACTIONS OF A CRAZY WOMAN!

And then he looked up and the camera angle, aligned to perfectly capture his profile, dark hair, stubble, and one piercing, icy blue eye seemed to sear into my soul. My heart did the thing where I can’t breath and before I even knew what was happening--before I could think, react, or remind myself that I don’t lust after baby killers--I was lost.

Without my conscious choice I began concocting alternate plot lines in my head. He was nearby; the baby wasn’t really in trouble. He used it for bait and that is wrong, but he made sure the baby was safe the whole time. He’s broken, wounded, confused by life and really just needs the love of a woman like Marion (or me) to make him better.

It’s not fair. It’s not my fault. It’s like an addiction. You show me a clean cut bad guy and I’m safe, clear, no problem. I mean, there was that one time with Universal Soldier and the necklace of ears, but I wouldn’t really date that guy. Honest I wouldn’t. But Sir Guy of Guisborne...it’s taken all of my not inconsiderable writing skills to manipulate the plot of Robin Hood into one where his character is savable. He’s been under spells, he’s been drugged, he’s been misunderstood, he’s been secretly working as a spy for King Richard to keep the Sheriff under watch...

Seriously it’s exhausting having a crush on this character and trying to justify it to myself at the same time. I keep trying to rationalize it away and I, the queen of rationalization, am almost outmatched. Hence my deep and overwhelming shame.

But I just can’t fight this feeling anymore. Apparently the way to my heart is to convince me there’s a large chance you’ll kill me someday with psychopathic remorse shining from your eyes.

And people wonder why I stay single.