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He was crying again. I could not believe he was crying. My boyfriend. I will always remember those eyes, longing to smile behind all the problems I thought he would solve with determination, strength and maturity. The love of my life— I knew it each time he played the guitar and with every word he spoke (that I had to later on look up in the dictionary, while we wasn’t looking), the one who said that he would brave each of the tremendous obstacles that distance can possibly inflict on true love—was crying. I didn’t know what to say. We just had an argument. I fought back. I shouted, I cursed and eventually hung up the phone on him. Later on, I called him back to apologize, knowing that women of an aggressive nature like myself oftentimes tend to be dramatic and irrational. My boyfriend, my prince, and my angel… the idiot was crying. Let me tell you that there is no experience that makes me more uncomfortable than seeing (or hearing, on that specific occasion) a grown man forced to tears. By this, I don’t mean the single dignified teardrop that slowly rolls down a gentleman’s cheek in the movies, I mean uncontrollable weeping, sobbing and wailing.

Men being hysterical, emotional and hypersensitive give me a headache. But what was I supposed to do in that situation—listening to my boyfriend completely transform into this helpless, pitiable person? I couldn’t hang up again, nor could I say, “sorry, babe. I love you, but I just can’t be bothered with this.”

After doing my absolute best to resolve the argument we had, I hung up the phone wondering why I felt so revolted by the conversation. I tried to come up with some intricate explanation as to why I was so disturbed by the petty squabble, until I finally realized that the answer was simple: it was because he cried. I tried to tell myself that this is what I asked for, that I had always imagined the great love of my life to be an artist as such — someone who was very open about his emotions and completely unafraid to express them. It was much too late when I realized that this whole time, I had been digging myself a hole, wishing for a pansy! Upon this realization, I began to reevaluate my past relationships, all the men I had dated before were precisely my failed attempts to fulfill my yearning for the stereotypical “sensitive” man, the results of which were nothing more than bad poetry and junk food binges that were fueled by memories of excessively dramatic experiences. What on earth had I been thinking? All this time I had been so certain of what exactly “my type” was, and all the man who fit the profile had turned out to be great disappointments. I began to wonder, when did sensitive men become everyone’s darlings, anyway?

Do women seriously still find these effeminate character attributes sexy? I personally believe that the phenomenon of the sensitive male is way past its expiration date. The weepy boyfriend eventually became my ex-boyfriend, and to celebrate my newfound freedom, I immediately resolved to find myself someone who would be his total antithesis and thus finally engage in a relationship with someone man enough to be with a woman like myself. I needed someone whose emotional stability would not crumble beneath my strong personality, someone who didn’t take himself seriously, someone who didn’t cry so darn easily! I went through a list of criteria in my head, determined not to end up with another pansy like the last one.

Foreign. Intelligent. Ridiculously good looking and coveted by many other females. No interest in a serious commitment. No artistic ability whatsoever. Preferably a jock.

It then dawned on me that maybe the problem was me. Was I truly such an unbearable woman that every one of my partners would not be able to sustain any semblance of a healthy relationship with me? Bear in mind that my extreme confusion did not by any means become an excuse to surrender myself to defeat. I was not going to let something like existential anguish degrade me into an emotional sack of nerves! I was determined and would not indulge myself in mood swings, vanity, or hysteria. I decided that I was through searching for the right man, I’ m now waiting …

I smiled to myself… perhaps it is time to get off my rant and come back to earth. Perhaps not everything was as complicated as I made it out to be. Perhaps the right amount of sensitivity is, In fact, a lovely quality for men to have, in which case, I need not behave like such a difficult woman after all.