boys are dumb. throw rocks at them.

“I hate to see you unhappy,” he said, as though he knew me, as though one night spent together could somehow tell him all he needed to know to come to such a definitive conclusion about my state of well-being, my sense of contentment. I’ve heard this assessment made about me before, by friends who knew enough to know, friends who’d been there long enough to watch the unhappiness grow and flourish and ultimately seize complete control of who I’d become. And when those friends finally put into words what we both knew was true, I could do nothing but agree, do nothing but say that, yes, I hate to see myself unhappy, too.

This time was different. Not only was this boy claiming to know more about me than our brief encounter could provide, he was also and absolutely wrong in his assumption of discontentment, wrong to suggest I’m unhappy, and wrong to express sorrow—pity, really—in regard to that judgment. And so I immediately refuted his insinuation, angry that my approach to life, to relationships, could be seen by him as incompatible with happiness based merely on the fact that my approach differs from his own. In his mind, my decision to date another man in the three weeks since he last saw me makes me some kind of slut, and seemingly disloyal to the evening we shared. Not so, I say, But thanks for making me feel like a whore.

I’ll admit that my attitude about relationships and romance and the “B” word (read: boyfriend) may be somewhat unconventional, and possibly unhealthy, but that doesn’t mean I’m automatically unhappy because of it. And it doesn’t necessarily have to be wrong for me right now. Last night, I had drinks with a boy (yes, another quasi-date, Mr. “I Hate To See You Unhappy” would most definitely disapprove) who understands the need to be unattached, to explore my options, to live a relationship-free life for a while. A boy who understands that a lack of commitment doesn’t have to mean a lack of romantic adventure.

Recently, I’ve been struggling with the notion that I fear intimacy, and that it is this fear which keeps me from truly engaging in a meaningful relationship with a man. Truthfully, there’s probably some validity to that assessment. A lot, in fact. But I also haven’t met a man with whom such a relationship seems likely or even possible. I’ve built some fairly sturdy walls around my heart, around my Self, and breaking through that barrier will not be an easy task for any man who tries. And I’m not entirely convinced there’s a man out there willing to face that challenge head on. Or a man for whom I am willing to let down my guard just a little. Enough to offer a glimpse of truth. But I do know my happiness is not based solely upon a successful romantic endeavor, a monogamous or committed relationship. And I resent the boy who seemed to assume it could.

I’m looking for a lot in a potential partner—intellectual, psychological, physical chemistry—and I’m prepared for the possibility that my overly-idealistic expectations might leave me alone (but not necessarily lonely) for quite a while. I also assume that at some point, I may have to ease up on those expectations ever so slightly for the sake of an almost ideal relationship. But I’m just not ready to do that yet. And certainly not for someone who makes me feel badly about behaving like I’m single (which—for his information—I am).

Some days I wonder if I’m broken, if I’m simply incapable of feeling love for another person in a romantic context, like that part of me has somehow been turned off—and possibly for good. But I just keep hoping it’s functional, but dormant, waiting for the right set of circumstances to be persuaded into once again working. In the meantime, I’m going to date men, more than one at a time if I want to. I’m going to get mine—intellectually and physically—because every encounter serves its purpose in my struggle to understand and experience intimacy, in my effort to find comfort in being exposed.

So, guess what, Mr. Thinking You Know More Than You Do, Making Baseless Claims About My Contentment Man? I’m happy. And pretty much done dating you.