I had an epiphany today.

I'm talking on the phone with this man, this man I've been on a date (or two? It's often so hard to tell) with, but haven't yet slept with.

And he lays on me this speech about talking it slow, and getting to know each other before we become intimate. About how he doesn't really know me.

And that he's also sort of, maybe, kind of dating another woman, too.

He is quick to assure me he hasn't slept with her, either.

My first reaction is actually a kind of gut-wrenching dread. I've never, ever been chosen over someone else, not in my entire life. This is my insecurity.

My second reaction is indignation. Why is telling me this? Is this supposed to make whatever he does ok? This is my feminism.

And my third reaction is, "Why on earth am I at all concerned about whether he'll pick me?" This is my epiphany.

Why on earth am I concerned whether he'll want me?

I haven't really decided if I want to pick him.

I don't know him that well, either. I don't know what he believes, or where his politics lie. I don't know if will be disgusted by the fact I spend most of my summer running around barefoot, and that I have to slather myself in sunscreen to be outside for longer than an hour.

I don't know if he cuts his toenails in bed, or refuses to wash dishes.

I don't know how he feels about children.

These are all important things. Some of them are actually monumentally important.

And here I am worrying solely over what he thinks of me.

I really am a pleaser.

And this is not a good thing.

I vowed years ago that I would never again sublimate my identity to someone else's whim, but I have done it over, and over, and over again. I have done it repeatedly and without a second thought. I have not actually learned from my mistakes, as painful as they were. I have not remembered the lessons.

I am, at heart, a silly romantic girl that wants nothing more than True Love. Capital T, Capital L. I have never outgrown that fairy-tale stage of emotional development. And quite frankly, I don't want to. I don't want to give up on that dream. I don't want to develop skin so thick it can't feel when someone touches it or a heart so guarded I can't get out of myself.

I don't want to be bitter. I don't want to be alone. I don't want to give up on the human race as a whole, and it seems to me that giving up on love is the first step on that treacherously slippery road.

But maybe, just maybe, I don't have to.

It must be possible to remain open, without grasping at whatever is put in front of you. It must be possible to love, and still choose to bestow that love where it is wanted and appreciated.

So this is my task then.

This time, I choose.