There are two kinds of people in this world. The first are those who claim to fall deeply and passionately in love. Their entire lives begin to revolve around their partner and they lose sight of everything that once mattered to them, in order to please somebody else. That kind of person sickened me. Then there are those who shared my opinion on the topic of relationships.
I was a completely independent, mid-twenty year old woman; the thought of giving up my life for someone else didn’t seem realistic. I couldn’t even imagine waking up every morning to the same face and going about my daily routine, all the while having someone else in the back of my mind. My life could be summed up by the transformation I went through each weekend. I miraculously changed out of my structured, unrevealing work suit into my skin tight, mini dress, and thigh high boots. I went to the clubs in search of the perfect man to go home with for one night only, and looked forward to never hearing from him again. Due to my policy of not believing in love, my perfect guy was a hot jerk, who wanted nothing more from me than sex. I wasn’t exactly proud of this lifestyle, but there didn’t seem to be an alternative.
It isn’t like I didn’t want to have a man who was head over heels for me, wait on me hand and foot. I just didn’t believe that “true love” existed in real life, only in fairytales. From all the relationships I had ever had to suffer through, someone always got hurt. Whether it was having my heart broken by a man who would cheat on me and move on, or feeling the guilt of ending the relationship with the other person, there seemed to be no such thing as a happily ever after. One bad break up after another led me to believe the following: I will never feel that strong, passionate pull toward another human being and my heart will never ache from the thought of being left without them because that is what love is and as far as I was concerned, it did not exist.

Once while partying at one of the hottest clubs around, there was a guy eyeing me all night, but he wouldn’t make the first move. So I decided to approach him, since he more than fit the usual criteria necessary for me to allow him to take me home and get me into bed. He was toned, tanned, and possessed flawless facial features. As I walked over to the bar, where he was seated in between two bleached blondes with melon sized breasts, he peered up and our eyes met. There was a familiar look in them; I had seen it each time I met a new candidate for one of my famous one night stands. There was an instant understanding between us that let me know I had a new bed to sleep in for the night.

So, I decided to go home with the new mystery man of the night and see what adventure awaited me at his Upper East Side apartment. When we got to his place, he was surprisingly a gentleman, although I expected him to treat me like a piece of meat for one night only and leave me alone for the rest of my life. I left his place the next morning with a smile and childlike giggle. I didn’t want to like him. I didn’t want to feel the pain when things didn’t work out. I didn’t want to have this feeling of needing to hear his voice or to feel his touch.

I pondered for a while about what had given me that tumbling, turning, yet enjoyable feeling in the pit of my stomach, and then I realized I had butterflies. I began to panic. Each time in the past when I had felt this way it always led to something negative. Remembering back, I was stunned to realize that the feeling was the same as the first time I had felt this way back in elementary school about a boy whose name I had doodled repeatedly on the front cover of my notebook. I was completely fascinated in the way he could belch the alphabet and create that familiar sound that was able bring a grin to every young girl’s face by sticking his hand in between his sweaty, flapping underarm. He discovered my interest in him, which was apparent by the way a group of snickering girls, with ribbon-tied pigtails, would call out my name is unison each time he strolled by. The pressure of being the center of attention of a group of squeaky voiced, little girls was too much for him to handle. He came up to me one day at recess and told me the heart breaking news that he could no longer be my friend. All my anger came rushing out; I ripped out one of my hair barrettes and threw it at him with all my might. My tiny heart sank as I sat alone during snack time that afternoon with no one to share my cookies with. I learned then and there that relationships weren’t for me. And that is how my, what I thought to be, lifelong policy of never falling for another guy began. I made a vow to never give my heart away because someone would always trample all over it.

I went to work the next day, only to discover a beautiful bouquet of flowers, with a sweet, intoxicating aroma, waiting for me upon my desk. I called to thank him for being the gentleman he had been, but to tell him I wasn’t interested in anything more than what we had done. As I opened my mouth to break the news to him, my brain froze, every thought that had been going through my mind was gone. He conceitedly, yet adorably told me he was expecting my call; I laughed and flirted like I was a young girl again. He asked me to accompany him to dinner that night and without a thought or a care in the world, I agreed.

He picked me up at my apartment at eight o’clock sharp, just as he said he would. He came to the door and as I nervously opened it, he smiled at me with his beautifully aligned, perfect, white teeth and complimented my dress choice. He took me out to an elegant, expensive restaurant. He told me how beautiful I looked so many times, until I began to believe it myself. At the end of the night I expected him to come back inside my place and we would have sex, just as we had during our last encounter, but I don’t think that thought even crossed his mind. This time, he seemed determined to make this a proper first date, to erase the horrid way we had met. He gave me one, meaningful kiss and said he would see me soon. I prayed there was truth behind that statement.
On our next date he took me to the park and spread out a blanket for an afternoon picnic. He opened his basket and pulled out a cookie. He split it in half and gave the bigger one to me. Little did he know, the last time I ate a cookie was when I was in elementary school, the pain of having no one to share it with was too much for me. But I figured it was about time to move on, so I took my first bite of a cookie in more than fifteen years. I told him I was glad he brought it because that it my favorite. He told me he knew I liked it and just as I was about to question his statement he took a little, familiar hair burette out of his pocket. That was when it all began to make sense. His common name that I allowed myself to believe was just a coincidence, his gorgeous, blue-green eyes, his messy brown hair, the way he could make me laugh and bring out the kid in me.

I kept my vow to never give my heart away because I didn’t have to, he stole it from me. After months of exclusively dating, he took me by the hands and said the three words I never thought I would hear. I was shocked and afraid, but not because of what he had told me, but because I felt the same way and I had since the first time I met him. I looked into his beautiful, comforting eyes that were home to me, and without an ounce of hesitation stated that simple sentence which once seemed so complex, “I love you too.”