It's a four word response. Possibly even an excuse. Always stated matter of factly and imbued with a certain indignance. Born out of Saturday night affirmation sessions with my single friends and perfected in many a conversation with inquisitive relatives and acquaintances from high school, I had repeated it so many times I believed it to be true.

It was my mantra.

Question: "Why don't you have a boyfriend?"

Answer: "I go to Harvard."

There was never a need to explain the details. People always seemed to nod in agreement, heads cocked, with a hint of pity in their eyes. Maybe they didn't understand the nuances--that not being into one night stands at final clubs or ready to be engaged to the first boy I locked eyes with during first-year orientation week relegated me to a loathsome majority of eligible co-eds always hoping that Valentine's Day fell on a Wednesday. Maybe they wrongfully assumed my idea of fun was a night in the Widener stacks.

For once, the stereotypes didn't bother me.

My response staved off further inquisitions, diverted lengthy conversations about the minuscule details of my love life and permitted me to live safely in that Ivy League bubble that clouds your visions just enough that you perceive your problems--stress, grades, datelessness--as attributable to your situation--Harvard--and not yourself.

Yet, my response also gave me a unique burden to bear this summer. Off to DC and miles away from The Crimson's fortress where students for-sake Friday night gatherings to take surveys and write articles about the inept social scene, my excuse no longer applied. I was heading to a land where five o'clock meant the start of happy hour, not the deadline for a problem set, to a land where well built frat boys had to wear suits and ties, to a land where the interns roamed free (and you know what they say about interns).

There were no more scapegoats. I had to find myself a man.

Luckily a situation availed itself early on. Struggling to haul a load of boxes upstairs, I was confronted with a door that wouldn't stay open long enough to pull my hand truck through, and, to my delight, a handsome young man willing to hold it open. I graciously thanked him and smiled coyly like I imagined a sorority girl would do. We rode the elevator upstairs together.

Before stepping off, he invited me for drinks.

I was busy.

"Lunch on the hill tomorrow?" I inquired.

He accepted.

If it weren't for the boxes I'd have skipped off the elevator. This was something that would never happen at Harvard. My summer of free love was about to begin. Or so I thought.