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Love and Lust in the Bubble: The insecurity of commitment

I used to be a hopeless romantic — the kind that dreamt of riding dolphins into the sunset and falling asleep under the stars. All I wanted was a boyfriend I could dote on, buy chocolate for and snuggle with. And then I arrived at Princeton. It took a whole year to demolish the naive dreams of a freshman who’d been sheltered at an all-girls school for nine years. I had been blinded by fantasies and happy endings, but my freshman year ground up any remnants of potential emotional attachment with mortar and pestle. 

I returned sophomore year and jumped straight into detached hookups. These weren't the drunk, random hookups of a dewy-eyed freshman; this was a calculated, target-based hookup lifestyle. I was balancing a handful of no-strings-attached relationships, mostly without the influence of alcohol. I got used to it. If ever hints of deeper attachment began to surface, I cut ties and attempted to do as much damage control as I could. I experienced no empty feelings of loss or solitude purely because I had zero emotional investment. I felt empowered to make my own choices, knowing my decisions were entirely my own. For me, the decision to hook up seemed perfectly rational.

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Sure, there were periods of time when I wanted more. When all my best friends found relationships, I was tempted to scout one out for myself. But I found that what I really wanted was an accessory to help me achieve relationship nirvana, not the actual reality of a boyfriend. Upon acknowledging this terrible mob-mentality craving for a relationship, I retreated back into the hookup lifestyle. 

But when I crossed paths with this one guy, something shifted. Soon we were going out to dinner and the movies and spending an increasing amount of time together. In an attempt to maintain emotional detachment, I found myself making every excuse I had not to like him — What if he was seeing other people? How could I be sure of what he was after? Etc. But slowly I started ignoring the texts of my other hookups and skipping meetings and engagements for this one guy, hating myself for my irrational behavior. When he started saying things like “Are you going to change my life?” I panicked. The signs of attachment were clear — they were red flags screaming at me to sever ties. But somehow I couldn’t. I found myself inexplicably falling for his charm and hating every inch of myself for it. I watched this pitiful wreck of a self hanging on to every word he said, slipping into that stupid smile whenever my phone beeped and his name lit the screen.

I rationalized our relationship by telling myself we were friends with benefits. I knew he didn’t think so, but I labeled it such to keep myself sane. I dreaded the day we would have the exclusivity talk, and sure enough, after two months it came up: “I thought we were exclusive.” Of course he did. “We never talked about it,” I tried to justify. But the question inevitably surfaced: “Do you want to be exclusive?”

Yes. Yes I did. I wanted to so badly, but my rational side couldn’t bring myself to admit it to him. I was frightened. I had convinced myself to be comfortable with detached hookups. Commitment was the villain, and I wouldn’t trust any guy. But maybe it was the way he pinched my cheeks, or maybe it was the way we kissed as if we were the only ones in the crowded basement of Cap & Gown. Or maybe it was nothing at all. What I was feeling wasn’t rational, and I hated it. I gave it three days, and after thinking about it objectively rather than defensively, I realized I had to have him by my side. We figured it out on the eve of my birthday, and I’ve had the happiest and most hopeful two months since.

It was hard for me to deny that buried somewhere within me is a burning need to be loved by someone, to be treated like the only person that matters in the world. I think I got caught up with being emotionally detached because it allowed me to take pride in my independence. It was practical and gratifying. I'm at Princeton and unsurprisingly, quite fond of being in control. But I realized that if I restricted myself to such a mold and never let down my guard to give someone a chance, I was letting people who might make me incredibly happy pass me by. Forcing myself into a certain lifestyle and justifying one over another had begun to make me unhappy, which was the very thing I wanted to avoid in the first place. I was aware of my options and didn't feel cornered into making a decision out of peer pressure or convenience, but I knew it was the right time and person for me to leave behind my old lifestyle for one of commitment.

Change was messy. I knew I could get hurt, but I also knew it could be my chance to ride dolphins into sunset. I didn’t feel empty or messed up before I made the decision to commit, and I don’t regret that time in my life, but I feel so hopeful and complete with him by my side. It doesn’t matter whether we break up eventually or not — it’s the moments that count, and I cherish each and every one with him. 

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