For those of you who have followed my column, you know this: I’ve had enough bad dates to last three lifetimes. If an opportunity to embarrass myself (often horribly) is presented, my subconscious usually jumps at the chance. And when it comes to relationships, I’m not a big proponent of the U-Haul courtship ritual.

I poke fun at card-carrying members of the U-Haul club, mostly because it’s hard for me to wrap my head around the concept: Girl meets girl, girl falls in love with girl, one week later they buy a dog, rent a cottage, and live happily ever after. For as much flack as I give people in U-Haul relationships, I should have known it was only a matter of time before karma would bite me in the ass.

The backstory: Sometime after my 21st birthday, I discovered, seemingly overnight, I’d fallen in love with my best friend, and shortly after, he discovered the feeling was mutual. But, try as we did, we couldn’t make it work. We never once fought and never really argued, but, despite our good nature, we learned, sometimes, love just isn’t enough.

Our relationship fell apart, but we managed to keep in touch. And just three weeks ago, an unlikely thing happened: we decided it might be fun if I hopped on a flight and headed home to kick it old school and celebrate Halloween.

I had second thoughts. After all, I was flying cross-country to spend 43 hours with someone I hadn’t spent any quality time with in seven years. What the hell, I figured – neither of us had any expectations and there were two possible outcomes: one, I’d spend quality time with a friend who has known me longer than most people; or two, it would be ridiculously awkward and I’d bail on him before the weekend was up, and bide time at a friend’s house until it was time to fly home. When I boarded my flight, I was filled with fear and anticipation.

I think we were both surprised at how effortless it was to interact with each other after all this time, and it seemed like no time had passed at all. We laughed, we talked, we hugged and about 12 hours into the trip he became the lesbian cliché.

Half a day in, he mentioned the possibility of me relocating home to be closer to him; and a day later, we were using the “L” word. We were caught in the moment and we went 100 percent U-Haul on each other. It seems, regardless of the fact I’m bisexual, even when I date a man, I might as well be dating a woman.

Two days and a flight home later, my hormone levels dropped back to normal and reality kicked in. I went from my happy place to stage three panic, which became clear when my roommate asked me if I was planning on moving and I nearly started to hyperventilate.

Insta-relationships have never been my style. I tend to look before I leap. So, for now, I just thank God that, while I may have placed a proverbial rental hold on that U-Haul, I had the sense to not drive the damn thing off the lot.

I’ve learned a lot about myself these past few weeks. I know what it’s like to get caught in the moment and I’ve learned that I can get carried away. More importantly, I learned rushing into something so big, so fast, is never, ever, something that should be done without careful consideration.