I Just Realized I'm Emotionally Unavailable

by Sheena Sharma

Winter Storm Jonas taught me a lot. It taught me that delivery guys judge you for ordering just cookies, and it taught me that just because you have all weekend to consume everything within a 50-foot radius doesn't mean you actually should.

Most importantly, though, the blizzard confirmed one of my biggest fears: I'm emotionally unavailable, and it really sucks.

This past Saturday morning, I found myself half-hungover and half-snowed-in. Zara, my badass friend and co-worker, suggested we spend the day bar-hopping and day-drinking, because what else is there to do in a blizzard?

And so the day began. At 1 pm, a round of cocktails rolled around, and by 4 pm my girlfriends and I were reasonably wasted. Seeing as the Internet convinced me that “snowday sex” is supposedly all the rage, I thought it'd be a good idea to text my f*ckboy of a f*ck buddy to see if "blizzard bang buddy" was on his resume of talents.

As I waited between Daisy Buchanans (for those of you who have never heard of these, it's what I drink when I'm looking for trouble) for him to text me his verdict, in walked a pair of young, chiseled-jawed, brown-haired dudes. The one on the right made a beeline for my friend, while the one on the left (the hotter of the two, if you ask me) came straight to me.

We immediately had chemistry. He was funny, sweet, remarkably good-looking and essentially perfect. Hours passed and we were still talking. At the pinnacle of a flirty argument with him about whose "Making a Murderer" theory was better, my phone buzzed. And sure enough, it was Blizzard Boy. He was on his way to retrieve me for le sex.

At this point, I was conflicted. My other guy was already en route, but I wanted to continue talking to Mr. Perfect, a hedge fund dude with a big heart and an even bigger sense of humor.

So it only made sense that I disregarded his presence and decided to end the night early so I could spend the next 24 hours with my pea-size-brained, construction worker f*ck buddy, who isn't deserving of my precious time at all.

I told Hedge Fund Guy that I got locked out of my apartment and that my landlord was coming to give me my keys. He nodded his head (I'm not sure if actually believed my little tale), gave me his number, kissed me on the cheek and watched me leave with my f*ck buddy.

I once saw a movie where a guy invited two women to the same party and skillfully played them both, managing to make both of them fall in love with him by taking turns flirting with them. I also remember riding on the highs of the words of my drunk friends, who egged on my decision to leave the guy I liked for the guy I liked having sex with (“Get it, girl! Have your cake and eat it, too!”). At the time, I deemed this as modern-day feminism, but in retrospect, I realize I had one too many fires in the oven.

Snowday sex didn't fall short of my sexpectations. HoweverI could've had sexy time any day. The fact that I willingly continued a dead-end relationship with someone instead of getting to know someone else I could actually see myself hanging with and learning from is beyond me. I was completely willing to put my potential future husband on the line for some schmuck who occasionally kicks me out of his apartment.

I know I'm making some pretty bold statements about a guy I've only known for roughly four hours, but do you know how rare it is to come across a cute, stable guy with a personality who isn't also ridiculously entitled? It's pretty f*cking hard.

The truth is, I'm scared to get too close to someone. I'm a weirdo through and through, but people (especially men) tend to think I'm "perfect," and it's just easier to keep up this facade. But I am the farthest thing from perfect.

I complain endlessly about not having a love life. But when the opportunity is actually there for the taking, when it's so close I can almost touch it, I run right in the opposite direction. And there's one reason, and one reason only: I don't want someone to see me at my worst. I only know how to operate being seen at my best.

I know true love is accepting being seen at both your worst and your best by your partner, but I guess it's one thing to think, talk and write about love, and an entirely different thing to feel it.

I think maybe I'm still hurting from my previous relationship. No, I no longer have any inkling of feeling for my ex, but that doesn't mean I trust men again all of a sudden. Because I don't. I hate to lump the good eggs in with the bad ones, but don't take it personally, dudes. Sometimes, I don't trust women, either. Humans in general suck.

For now, I'm going to keep messing around with my f*ck buddy. I'm used to it. It's comfortable. It's fun, and there's no pressure. Physical relationships are my comfort zone. I can deal with sex. It's blindly giving my heart to someone that I have an issue with. He might cheat, or take me for granted, or f*ck up in any number of ways -- even unintentionally, because we're only human. And I'm just expected to expose myself to those kinds of risks? Hell no.

I'm emotionally unavailable because I'm too emotionally immature to handle something emotionally intimate. Phew. It feels good to get that off my chest.