Manxiety

I think I have manxiety. This is, of course, a very rare neurological condition that prevents an individual from delving into deeper relationships with the opposite sex, and more specifically men. The other day I was sitting at the local cafe, scribbling in my journal, when a young man approached my table and sat in the chair opposite me. He looked to be about twenty-five, a little grungy, with shaggy brown hair and gray eyes that could suck you into a vortex.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

I put my pen down and closed my journal. "Writing."

"Are you not enjoying it?"

"No, I am."

"Then why is your face so frowny?"

Well, I thought to myself, it is because some stranger interrupted my creative process and invited himself into my workspace. "I was just concentrating. My friends call it my writing face."

The conversation went on like this for a while. I discovered the guy's name was Steven and that he graduated from some design school back in 2009. He works as a substitute teacher and designs backpacks, among other things, on the side. In the five minutes I talked to Steven, I concluded he was like any other unemployed hippster. Though he made me a little uncomfortable with his confidence, I didn't mind his company. After all, I had been sitting in the coffee shop for a few hours and was feeling a little lonely. I like chatting with strangers and I planned to leave town the next day. Making a new coffee shop friend seemed harmless. Then it happened.

"So, I ran cross country back in high school," Steven said.

"Oh yeah? Me too, but I haven't been running since. I should really get back into that habit."

"Well, you should come dune running with me and my buddies at the beach tonight. What do ya say?"

What do I say? I say I met you literally seven minutes ago and already you are looking to pick me up?   "Uh, I don't know."

"Aww, come on. It's not like I am a creep or anything."

That's the funny thing about men. As soon as they declare that they are not creeps, they automatically appear creepy. It is the same with drunkards. When a drunk person starts showing you that he can touch his nose and walk a straight line, it is time to take the keys and cut him off. Ignoring the creeper comment and the sour feeling in my stomach, I attempted to tell Steven that I wasn't interested. However, I couldn't muster the courage. In place of honesty, I avoided rejection by retrieving his phone number and promising a call I knew I would never make. 

This is one encounter, among many, that I have had with the opposite sex. So why didn't I give Steven a chance? He seemed nice enough. He wasn't bad looking. He didn't have any noticeable oddities. So why didn't I refill my coffee cup and continue chatting with this fellow? Why didn't I meet him on the beach or give him the decency of a phone call? I wish I could pinpoint a reason or a legitimate excuse for why I ignored Steven and other men like him, but I can't. I am no psychologist. However, I do know that when it comes to relationships, I am not your girl. Once the flirting phase is over and expectations are mentioned, you lose me. I refuse affection and close up. I claim that I am too busy, too far, too close, too introverted, too ambitious, to be in a relationship, when in reality I use these excuses to build walls. I wish I knew what I was trying to keep out, or rather what I am afraid of letting in, but until I can comprehend the workings of my brain I will attribute my symptoms to manxiety. This is my self-diagnosis and my only excuse for now.