Because YOLO

Maybe it isn't my awkward demeanor. Maybe it isn't my low maintenance hair or my laziness with makeup. Maybe it isn't my bigger build. Maybe it isn't the way I dress. Maybe it isn't because I don't say much.

Maybe it's because I think too much. Maybe people aren't attracted to me because I think too much.

I was miserably putting up with a sex-based discussion going on around me over a lunch I was barely touching, seething over the fact that there must be something pathetic or undesirable about me if I don't have the littlest, most innocent thing to contribute in any conversations that take a turn toward romantic and sexual relationships.

And it got me thinking.

If so many different types of people end up in that whirlwind or temporary bliss us teenagers label as "in a relationship" due to Facebook teaching us such terminology, then maybe I haven't stumbled upon romance for a reason other than being undesirable.

To put it bluntly,

maybe I'm a pussy.

I have a tendency to do this thing called "overanalyzing" where I take a situation, and I make a nice, long list of all the possible things that could go wrong. I convince myself that every decision I make, especially dealing with love, should be done in a manner that gracefully avoids pain. I am devoted to my comfort zones. So what if that comfort zone is the warm, welcoming seat of the rocking chair that we call worry, that gives me something to do but never takes me anywhere? At least I'm comfortable, right?

But life shouldn't be about avoiding anything outside of your comfort zone, should it? What exactly does that accomplish? And a better question: why the hell do I do it so much?

Pining away for Floyd is a comfort zone. That whole scenario. The unrequited love thing. It's become home to me. It's the reason why I sometimes avert my eyes when I see him looking at me, the reason why he isn't the only one avoiding conversation.

Maybe Floyd didn't drift away. Maybe I pushed him.

But why? Why would I do that? Because I'm scared? Scared that he'll want me?

That really doesn't make much sense to me either. But there is something about a romantic/sexual relationship that terrifies me. Imagine that! Me, the girl whose mouth is practically a broken record entitled "I Will Die Alone", is afraid to have a boyfriend.

I guess that could be understandable. Maybe. I mean, everyone is afraid of the unknown, and I am no different. I am afraid to go to college, to live on my own. I am afraid to take my SATs next month. I am afraid to speak my mind. I am afraid of getting my license. I am afraid of having children when I'm older. I am afraid to die. And at the root of it all, I am afraid of change. I am the very embodiment of fear, which I'd say stems from that whole "overanalyzing" thing.

And from that also stems my fear of having a boyfriend.

Sure, those fairytale-esque daydreams that often plague my common sense seem pretty appealing. But real relationships aren't something ripped straight out of a rom-com, and perhaps that is what scares me. The possibility of my first relationship falling short of perfect.

But no one's relationships are perfect. The things in our lives that aren't perfect are the things that become mistakes that shape us, and stories to tell, and memories to look back on and laugh or cry. If a person lives their life gracefully avoiding any situation that could cause them discomfort, can that person honestly say that they are living?

I don't think so.

Maybe living with my guard up is what has made me so impervious to love, so reluctant to give it and receive it. And not just love, I have become impervious to everything that my self-inflicted misery cannot feed off of.

Why do I choose to live this way? Forcing myself into the captivity of comfortable and wondering why I have become so cynical, so miserable, so sour, so torn apart by this constant tug-of-war between being happy and being comfortable?

It's like I'm a butterfly who has voluntarily flew into the net of an evil child named Doubt and let them plunk me in a jar, let them forget to poke some air holes in the top. It's like Doubt holds me in his grimy little hands, watching me and waiting for me to die just to feel the thrill of sucking the life out of yet another person. And from the inside of the jar, I watch everyone else hatching from their cocoons and fluttering about with beautiful wings, landing on flowers and sucking out the sweetness until there is none left, then careless flitting to another.

And I am completely capable of sucking the sweetness out of my life.

I've been so convinced that I'm still trapped in my cocoon, bitterly watching as everyone else and everyone else's lives evolve around me and waiting for my own chrysalis to burst open and release me with a one-way ticket to that contentment I envy so greatly.

But perhaps I've already shed my cocoon. Perhaps the only thing holding me back is the tauntingly clear walls of Doubt's jar, the walls I put up around myself.

Maybe I should take the hint from the inanity of pop culture and follow the mantra we've all learned to disdain: the acronym "YOLO."

Because you really do only live once.

Why waste that life letting Doubt hold you back?