A few nights ago I found myself sitting across from someone I've admired for years but hadn't until that night met. In a quiet, dimly lit bar in Manhattan's East Village, we sat over New York sours and caught up on each other's life. The conversation quickly moved toward the area of both our struggles: relationships.

It was the ultimate foreshadowing, since it was a jetty where the veil was at last lifted, the wind blew her hair across the corner of her smile and I fell madly in love. The forever kind.

I can’t wait for the day when, with no hesitation or reluctance, a woman at long last, chooses me. Fully and completely. Picks me and decides to stick with me, choosing and wanting to take on life together. But “someday” seems like it slips further away from me every day. On Monday I’ll be 28. And my track record of slow, selective pursuits and twice choosing to go “all in” and give of myself in love has left me in ruins.