The Humane Society

I did it. I didn't wimp out. I phoned Date #15 and explained in a kind but concise way that I didn't think we had a future together, not even short-term, like in a day.

Sure, I could have left his call unanswered, which I've been known to do. But my latest resolution is to be the kind of woman who speaks up. What to say was the only question.

My girlfriend Eustacia suggested I make it about me, like in: I'm just not ready to get involved again.

"But that's not true," I told her.

"Why make him feel badly? she said.

Since we'd only gone out twice, I couldn't imagine him feeling that badly. Still, I didn't want to lie. So I asked my son, who was reading Road and Track on the couch, for suggestions.

"I don't know," he answered.

"No, tell me what you'd say."

"I don't care. How about, 'no, I don't want to go out with you again?'"

"That's all?"

"Okay, no thank you. The girls I know, do it all the time."

"Do the boys feel badly?"

"Depends on the boy."

"You mean some boys don't?"

"Mom, let me read."

Fine, I said, then went into the next room, called Date #15, and trying to sound my sweetest said no thank you to going out again.

I think he said, 'okay,' but maybe not, because suddenly there was all this static sound followed by a strange beeping.

"Hello? Hello? Are you there?" I shouted. But he was already gone.

I felt terrible, but what could I do. Call him back? Wait to see if he phoned me? Or just face the facts: It's a cold, cruel world out there, and dating doesn't make it any easier.

The Accident - Date #15

So Date #15 is this really nice guy - generous, kind, thoughtful, the whole shebang. Plus our meal together is delicious and the conversation pleasant. But I just don't feel it.

Knowing that feelings can be deceptive, however, when he asks me out again, to this trendy Mexican place, I agree and even have a great time. Mostly because we're double-dating with the friend who fixed us up and who is always fun to be around.

Until, that is, towards the end of the evening, when she and I are heading to the bathroom and she pops the question: "So what do you think?"

I look at her apologetically. "It's just not there."

"Not there?" she exclaims. "Not there! What's wrong with you? What are you looking for? He has a good heart. He wants to be in a relationship. If you don't watch out, you're going to end up alone."

Alone...Alone...The word reverberates through my bones. Or maybe it's the sound of the toilet flushing. Either way, by the time we get back to the table and my third margarita, a numbing chill is circulating into my heart.

What if what my girlfriend said is true? Am I too picky, too unreasonable, too unrealistic? My first husband, after all, was handsome and smart. My second wasn't bad either. But in the long run, does attraction really matter? Do you need to be intrigued with someone's brain? Or can goodness and kindness supersede everything?

Flummoxed, disheartened, not knowing what else to do, I down my drink and smile, then smile again and again.

Finally, the dinner ends. My date picks up the bill, then drives me home.

"Turn left at the light," I direct. And he does, as right behind us there is a tremendous CRASH and a Jaguar and a Chevy smashing into each other.

The Chevy driver is fine and immediately climbs out of her car. The other one isn't. Even with the Jaws of Life, it takes almost 30 minutes for some two dozen rescue workers to extricate the poor woman from the wreck.

My date doesn't talk much as we stand there watching. I try, but whatever I say misses the mark - or at least his mark. So instead I share my thoughts with a nearby stranger who landed on the accident while walking her dog.

Eventually, the ambulance, red lights flashing, tears off. My date walks me to my door. We chat a moment or two. Then he aims for a kiss. Which I deflect into a goodnight hug and a promise to stay in touch.

I know, I know, he's a very good man. And my girlfriend could be right, I might end up alone. But as I unlock my front door and turn on the lights, there's one thing I'm sure of -- nothing is lonelier than wittingly or not, settling for the wrong guy.

Me Jane

Maybe it's just the alignment of stars these days, but I seem to be attracting a cascade of...how should I put it...willy-nilly men.

Take Date #14. He called the other day and asked what was up over the weekend. Thinking he meant literally, I began outlining all the activities I had on my calendar, when it hit me that what he was really wondering was whether I wanted to do something with him.

"Is that right?" I asked.

"Yes," he said.

"Oh, okay, sure," I responded then waited to hear what he had in mind. Then I waited some more, until finally asking, "Did you have anything in mind?"

"No," he said. "You choose."

Wait a second, I thought, you're asking me out. You should do the picking, or at least make a suggestion. And that's what I told him.

"But I don't care," he said. "A movie. Dinner. A drink. Whatever you want. Is it so hard for you to choose?"

"No," I replied.

But before I could continue, he said he had to get off the phone. "I'll call you back," he concluded, though guess what, he never did.

Probably, I shouldn't fault the guy. After all, a few weeks before, another fellow had asked me out or kind of did. He wanted me to tell him when, where, and what we were going to do, and he'd show up.

Then there was a third suitor who emailed saying that he was a friend of a friend, but I should know up front that he doesn't chase. By which I assume he meant that if anything was going to happen between us, I should get ready for some heavy lifting.

Now maybe these men thought they were being considerate. And I'm sure some people would say, I'm being a wimp. A strong, independent woman, after all, should know what she wants. Why should the man always have to decide? And it's a legitimate question.

But as a single, working mom who has chosen to freelance, my life sometimes feels like one never-ending, decision fest. I'm not complaining. Still, it would be kind of nice, sort of like getting flowers, to not have to be in charge when it comes to date night, at least right off the bat.

Which doesn't mean I want the hyper-dominant, take charge, me, me, me kind of man, whom I've known all too well in the past. But what about someone in-between. Not too short, not too tall. Not too fat, not too lean. Say, a Marlboro man who does Ikebana. Or even better, a Tarzan who likes to clean.

Baring teeth - Date #14

I may have looked happy-go-lucky as I strolled down Michigan Avenue, but truth be told a litany of negative thoughts were rolling through my mind. "Why am I meeting this guy? I'm not going to like him." That kind of thing.

Fortunately, I tripped on a crack. I managed to stay on my feet, but still it woke me up to the fact that my current mode of thinking was only going to lead me to a miserable time.

Enough, I told myself, and heeding the advice of my girlfriend Lynn, plastered a smile on my face. Even a forced grin, she insists, lifts the spirits. So I bared my teeth a good ten seconds, and then did it again.

Next up, positive affirmations: I'm going to have fun; I enjoy dating; and similar self-talk.

Lastly, I sang. Not so loudly that passersby might think I was loony, but loud enough to let the syrupy lyrics of that upbeat classic, Oh What a Beautiful Morning, sugarcoat my soul.

Sure enough, something shifted such that by the time I came face-to-face with my date, I was, if not transformed, at least open to whatever happened.

And what happened was this. As anticipated, he wasn't The One, not even close. But as we took a walk along the lake, a soft breeze rolled in, and the moonlight seemed to leave a silvery luster wherever it fell.

The conversation wasn't half-bad either, plus I laughed twice, the deep-in-the-belly kind of laugh, which was worth the entire night.

Unfortunately, as we were about to part, he asked what should never be asked on a first date -- what did I think of him?

I considered for a long moment, remembering the easy laugh. "I think we could be friends," I finally said and really meant it.

I could tell by the sudden, glazed over look in his eyes, it wasn't what he wanted to hear. Nonetheless, he was polite and said he'd call.

To his credit, he did and even suggested seeing a film. When the time came to figure out exactly when and where, however, I received an email instead. He'd been stricken by a very bad cold, he wrote, and could barely move.

Truthfully, I wasn't surprised. But still I was glad we met. He'd taught me something important. That I always have a choice, even if all that's involved is a matter of perception.

Look Ma, No Hands

As I sit here in hair curlers, getting prepped for this evening's date, I've decided to review a few of the suggestions I've collected from some of my more successfully coupled friends.

At the top of my list is Liz, who separated from her husband around the same time I did, but who has been seriously involved almost as long with the second man she went out with. Her advice: Become a good person. Then, guaranteed, a good person will find you.

I love it, on one hand. But then on the other, I can't help but wonder whether the converse would also be true. Because a "good man" hasn't yet found me, does that mean I'm "bad?"

Next up, my friend Casey, who was dead set on remarrying after her second divorce and sure enough has. She treated looking for a man as if she were looking for a job with the emphasis on LOOK. "There's a lot of competition out there," she'd often say, "so you got to look like a million bucks." Or in her case, make that a billion.

She's right, I suppose. But unfortunately, I don't have the time, the money, the skill, or even the interest.

Which is why I'm hoping that the way in which a model friend of mine met her husband, will happen to me. She was living in Paris then and one morning, without even brushing her teeth, she'd rushed outside to get a baguette, when voila, there in the boulangerie, standing in line behind her was...need I say more.

Granted, I'm not a model, but I definitely have other strengths which, a happily married friend who is a dean at a prestigious university insists, can work just as well for me.

If, that is, I do what his old girlfriend did. She joined Match.com and immediately pulled out all the intellectual stops, giving great thought to every email exchange, religiously doing her homework. Sure enough, she and her brain are today engaged to a Harvard professor.

Sound good? You bet. Like all my friends' advice, it's...well, advice. Whether I take it or leave it, I tip my hat and offer a hearty thank you.

The Next Round

Okay, okay. I know I've been gone, almost three months now. Just like that, poof, as if I'd given up on this whole thing, this searching seriously for a soul mate.

Not at all. It was just that my escapades with various man, dating willy-nilly this one and that, none ever evolving into so much as a passing fancy, got me wondering what was up with my inner workings.

Which in turn led to some serious investigation that earlier in the summer seemed too intimate to share. Better to stop cold, without even a simple goodbye.

Wimpy? Yes it was. Right when I was getting to the good stuff, the heart of the matter - that being my shtick - sure enough, then and there, I wimped out.

It's easy to see others' flaws, particularly those of the opposite sex. But to say, "Whoa, stop right there honey, and take a good look at yourself, blemishes and all," is another business entirely.

But I did it. And here I stand, makeup-free, ready to climb back into the ring. No running scared this time, or at least I'll try not to, when, as inevitably will be the case, I come face-to-face with the difficult task of being human.

The Circus Monkey

I've decided to lay off dating for awhile and instead go out with myself - to fun places, doing things I enjoy, or just hanging around and getting acquainted with who I am.

My friend, Eustacia, says she loves her own company. I can't say the same is true for me, which makes you wonder how I can expect anyone else to take a shine to me if I don't. I've put in a lot of years telling myself I'm not enough or conversely, that I'm too much, years of performing like a circus monkey in hopes of setting things right. Finally, I'm beginning to think there isn't any "right" out there. It's only "right" right here, now, where I am.

My son is with his dad this weekend which means I'm on my own. I have a loose plan to meet an acquaintance for coffee, but otherwise the next 36 hours our mine to shape any way I please.

There's a morning yoga class in Millennium Park that I could attend or later near the lake, there's an outdoor jitterbug class accompanied by live music. I have a long line up of magazine queries that need finishing and if I throw the windows open wide, I'll feel the fresh breeze as I write. Later I could bike to Whole Foods for fresh salmon, and then this evening teach myself how to grill.

All of the above sounds lovely. In fact, if I heard that someone else was spending their Saturday this way, I'd be downright envious. But it's not someone else. It's me. And I just have to remember that I'm the lucky one who gets to be with myself.

Sweet Potato Vine

I've been on hiatus, taking a little respite. This searching business can get exhausting.

My friend, Eustacia, is more harsh. She calls it futile. She doesn't believe you can look for love. It comes looking for you and the trick, she says, is to be ready for it.

Even though I don't agree, I've been devoting these last few weeks to doing a good spring-cleaning. I fixed the fridge, got a new garbage disposal, planted impatience and sweet potato vines in the flower boxes on the balcony.

My closet witnessed a ruthless makeover with any item that didn't sing tossed into the Goodwill bag. My hairdresser gave me long bangs, then I went and got a pedicure.

Meanwhile, I've been weeding my social garden. It was long overgrown and seriously needed a thinning out, but instead of using a back hoe, a hand spade might have been a wiser choice. Or at least a less drastic one. From a dozen calls a day from friends, I'm now lucky if I get one.

But instead of feeling sorry for myself, I've decided to pretend as if I'd just moved in. As the stranger in town, I'd try all kinds of new things, be open to all kinds of new people. I'd be patient with myself and when come evening, I found myself on on my own, I wouldn't think, 'what's wrong with me?' but place my bets on change and maybe just for fun toss purple pansies into the dinner salad.

The Snore - Date #14

Confession time: I fell asleep. Yes, in the middle of my date with #14, I took a little snooze. We were at Symphony Hall, a mere 20 feet from the resounding brass section, hearing Mahler's Fifth. Even so, I somehow nodded off.

What can I say?

Years ago when I lived in Bangkok, a girlfriend of mine liked to throw dinner parties. Every time, halfway through the evening, she'd invariably shut her eyes and emit a little snore. The other guests and I would hardly give it a thought. Instead we carried on, having a grand old time as if our host were wide-awake. She was tired, and that was that. No one took it personally.

The other night at the symphony, however, my nap was positively personal. Date #14 was one of those wrapped up in himself kind of guys, who shared the greatest of details about himself - including which TV shows he TiVo's - without once asking a question of me.

In fact, from the moment we met, the space between us was so vast, so void of energy, so enervating, that in comparison my catnap probably sparked things up. If, that is, he even noticed, which I doubt.

A few days ago, I ran into the husband of the friend who'd fixed me up with #14. "What was she thinking?" the husband exclaimed. "You two have nothing in common."

"It was fine," I countered. "It was totally fine. And anyway, the symphony was spectacular." At least, that is, the part I heard.

The List

I did it. I finally said so long to Date #13, and he thanked me for being honest.

We've emailed a few times since, but there's a difference in how he writes - without hopefullness, humor or promise. More like a business exchange, which of course is to be expected.

Still, I miss the possibility and am tempted to fill in the empty feeling with the closest man around or even worse, an ex.

Instead, I make a to-do list: Clean closet, cut hair, run, plant garden, fix clogged sink, buy new mattress pad, meditate.

It's a start.

Sonata in G

Why couldn't I say no? I mean, what's so hard about, "thanks, you're a swell guy, just not the one for me."

Instead I hemmed and hawed, got all mealy mouthed, and in the end, despite every feeling to the contrary, agreed to a fourth time out with Date #13.

I know, I know. I should have stopped after two. And I tried, making up a muddy excuse about why I had to cancel out on dinner plans. But when, the next day, he shared a family sadness, my 'maybe we could be friends' mode took kicked in and I suggested we meet for a movie.

I was hoping if I set up clear parameters, I'd be okay. So I gave a nod to a drink before the flick, but said that afterward I had to get right home.

And it all would have worked out fine, if only we hadn't talked so easily together - a fact, I now realize, can easily be mistaken for 'connection.' Because sure enough, at the end of the night, he asked if I wanted to go out again.

And sure enough, I said...yes.

Why, why, why? Do I secretly like him? Nope. Do I feel guilty? I don't think so. Am I one of those types for whom any company is better than being alone? Hopefully not.

No, the best I can figure is that I don't want to make him feel bad, though in the long run, my stringing him along sure isn't going to make him feel good.

Awhile back, I fell for someone whom I was absolutely positive had fallen for me. But after what I thought had been a fabulous, falling-in-love kind of weekend, he phoned to say he hadn't been thinking of me much, which was a sign to him that we should end things.

Another man I went out with a couple of times set things straight via email. "Our specific incarnation doesn't seem to be working," he wrote. "I reckon ultimately we're just too different."

Meanwhile, the guy whom my niece recently invited out, told her halfway through the night that it was a really, really, busy time for him and...my niece stopped him right there. She'd gotten the message.

Yes, there are a million ways to say goodbye and it's time to finally choose one.

The Question

I wonder if in every venture, there's a moment when you're tempted to call it quits.

You might not tell anyone, or even utter a word to yourself. But still, it's there, that infamous seed of doubt, ever present but papered over by innocence and hope.

Or is it the other way around? It may seem like flurry and worry dominate, but in truth they are marshaled about by a kernel of faith so boundless, so inextinguishable, that there's only one way to move - forward.

In other words, the half-full, half-empty question, which lately seems to be popping up a lot.

I mean, usually I'm a good sport, game for most anything. Yet in the last month or so, I seem to be turning down as many invitations as I accept.

Don't get me wrong, I still follow through on my two-date minimum rule, but not once since I began this search, have I been even close to wanting to up the number to three.

Am I giving up? admitting defeat before anything's really started? Or is it a good sign I'm choosing my own company and dinner leftovers from the fridge, over going out to some nuevo-fusion resto, making halfhearted chatter?

Last night, my friend Eustacia, who has trailed my romantic capers literally around the world (after a particularly bad break-up in the middle of the South Pacific, she was the first person I called - collect), emailed me a copy of an interview with a famous actress. It covered the range of topics, but the quote Eustache highlighted was this: "A woman needs to love herself more than she loves a relationship.

Then this morning in my inbox was a message from my friend Molly in Toronto. "I'm preparing for a huge yard sale," she wrote, "going through the entire house. It's all back-breaking work, but good...Cleaning out from the basement up, so to speak, getting rid of the old....welcoming in the clear, open, cleansed space.

"Same with you...get rid of whatever clutter you have...including doubt, that is the worst one. Make a goal and surge forth...onward!! Don’t count on any man to fix your life...it never works that way. If he comes...he comes...If he doesn’t, he is not supposed to - at least for now...I always think, later. And why not!"

Two friends. Two messages. Same advice. I think I have my answer.

The Space Between

My niece emailed me this morning all excited about some guy she had recently met. They're getting together tonight, she wrote, and her fingers are crossed.

A friend lives a grand story, even flying around with presidents. But he always sounds most happy when he talks about being with his grandson.

This past week, my son and I seemed to be at each other all the time - over homework, his teenage tone with me, how he'd purposely stuck his thumb into my coffee after I, unthinkingly, had used my finger to scoop out some mashed potatoes.

After one row, I got so frustrated, I jumped into the shower to cool off. Another time, my son stomped off, and for a good few minutes, wouldn't tell me where he'd gone.

Eventually, of course, we always made up. One of us would apologize. The other would follow suit, and as the space between us collapsed, even the air seemed keen on doing a little gig.

Years ago, while living in Asia, I met the rabbi in charge of Hong Kong's Jewish community. He was gnome-like in size, ducky in character and seemed less like a religious leader than a wonderful, wise friend.

We talked easily about everything, including love. "It's the only thing that keeps you going," he insisted.

"How do you mean?" I asked.

"I mean that love, and love alone, gives you reason to live. And I don't mean being loved, but loving - a person, a dog, god, your garden, it doesn't matter what, so long as you love." The rabbi paused a moment, then looked at me closely. "Never forget that."

"I won't."

"Promise?"

I nodded my head.

"Good," said the rabbi. "A promise is a promise."

The Conference

I don't know what possessed me, but the other morning while madly dashing about the house to get to a conference I was already late for, I donned a pink, little Jackie O. dress that fit snugly to my torso.

Perhaps this sartorial fact had nothing to do with what happened later that day. Perhaps it was just a coincidence. But perhaps not. Either way, several hours later when I stepped into the conference's ballroom for a pre-dinner cocktail reception, and saw everyone else there outfitted in shades of black and gray, I knew, bottom line, that I stood out - if not like a sore thumb, than like one of those pink, marshmallow Easter peeps - as I sashayed (at least I didn't hop) over to the bar.

Fortunately, I had other things to worry about. Like the fact that I didn't know a soul in the room, so where was I going to stand while I kicked back my chardonnay?

In another mood, I might have sought out a spot by the wall, or sidled up to a post. Alternatively, I might have planted myself near a friendly-looking group with the hope that eventually I could weave my way into their conversation.

Instead, who knows why, I chose the wide, open, empty space in the middle of the room, where the nearest person to me was a good six feet away.

Did I look conspicuous? Probably. But on this day, I didn't care. I was okay with my own company and rather than trying to attach myself to this person or that one, I was content with waiting to see if anyone approached me.

Sure enough, it didn't take long before a distinguished-looking man ambled over and introduced himself as the president of the university that was sponsoring the conference.

Wow, I thought, as we chatted about this and that. But when he was called away, and another gentleman - this one a captain of industry and the conference's other co-sponsor - immediately took his place, I suspected something was up.

Maybe it was the pink dress. Or that nature abhors a vacuum. Or maybe I was having some strange, lemming-like affect. Whatever the case, when the captain departed, a third fellow - the philanthropist who was funding funded the entire event - instantly showed up at my side.

And so the cocktail hour progressed. Until, come the dinner hour, I found myself at the very front of the ballroom, seated with the conference's most important guests, and engaged in delightful conversation.

Obviously, the evening could have ended up vastly different. In fact, if anything, it was odd that it turned out so splendidly. All I can figure is that by not giving a hoot how things went, I inadvertently left plenty of room for the unexpected to show up.

Which leaves me wondering whether I can carry this let-go-and-be experience over into my love life. Just imagine, to search without searching, or better yet, to find without looking. Now that would be grand.

The Auction - Date #13

I came home last night after meeting Mr. Big (see The Lesson) vowing I was done with dating. My son was at his dad's, so no one was there to hear me, but still I ranted aloud. "Over. Finished. I'm twice-divorced and single. So be it."

What sent me off? Date #13, who turned out to be smart, interesting, easy to talk with, as well as nice-looking. Our son's are nearly the same age. We share similar interests. Plus, he wants to be in love and my guess is, he'd be willing to work at it.

Of course, there were differences. Like the fact that he owns a dozens guns which he keeps in his bedroom closet. And that he's apolitical, leaning towards right wing.

Still, I probably could live with these things if I'd fallen for the guy. But last night, at least, I didn't. Instead, while driving home from the bar where we'd met for a drink, I was flooded with sadness - about how this funny, clever guy had been trying to sell himself to me. And how I, in a somewhat more subtle way (only because I didn't enumerate my quirks), had been trying to sell myself to him.

I mean really, how sad. That at this age, instead of celebrating ourselves, here we are, decked out in dating finery, voluntarily climbing onto the auction block for prospective buyers to poke and prod us and even inspect our teeth.

No wonder, I hurled my casual, first date, just-sexy-enough-but-not-too outfit into the wash as if it were the enemy. Yuck and good riddance!

Thankfully, life looks different in the morning light. And the first thing I did today after brushing my teeth, was retract my words.

I had to. If I want to love again, giving up is not an option. Like it or not, it just isn't. Or to quote my girlfriend Eustacia, "Forward ever, backwards never."

Tar Baby

I can't believe it. A simple email exchange with the ex-boyfriend, and here I am a veritable logjam of emotions.

Why do I do this to myself?

It had all seemed harmless enough. I had a business question that I knew he could answer, and anyway, I was sure I was over him.

Obviously I wasn't, given that here I am, for a good hour now, dithering about this feeling and that one, unable to focus let alone get any work done.

And all he wrote was, "Call me." Two words. That's it. But it was enough to send me in a tailspin, trying to decide whether I should.

The best I can figure is that my inner tar baby took over. And just like Br'er Rabbit in the Uncle Remus stories, who got himself hopelessly stuck on a doll of turpentine and tar, I too could end up forever entangled if I don't watch out.

A wise source, aka Wikipedia, suggests that if you find yourself in a sticky situation that is aggravated by additional contact, the only way to solve the situation is by separation.

Makes sense to me. But now I have to do it.

The Lesson

I have another date in the works and according to the person who fixed me up, he's smart, funny, and couldn't be nicer.

So what's the catch? Me.

I googled his image and unless it's out-of-date, he appears to be, how should I say it, a tad heavy-set.

I know. How limited and shallow can you be?

In my case, I guess a lot. And I know why. My mother was, to put it mildly, a big woman. Perhaps if we'd had a healthy, loving, mother-daughter relationship, I'd view overweight people differently. But we didn't. And consequently, here I am, long after she's passed, still, to my regret, judging people by their poundage.

Last week, I was having a heart-to-heart with a girlfriend and asked if she minded that her hubby leaned towards the chunky.

She looked at me like I was crazy. "Of course I want him to be healthy, but I love his body. Every single inch of it."

Another friend's husband is an enormously talented guy, who is also physically enormous. Think Peter Ustinov, Pavarotti, or hello, one of the most charismatic people you know.

So what am I waiting for? I can stand here on the sidelines, weighing peoples' worth forever, or say to heck with that, toss neuroses to the wind, and finally, at long last, have a little... no, a lot more fun.

Pearls

What can I do? It's just not there. That ineffable, magical feeling, aka the spark, continues to elude me.

I tried with Date #11, even extending my two-date minimum rule to three, in case the problem was mine and I was unconsciously self-sabotaging or simply looking the wrong way.

Unfortunately, it wasn't to be. And I mean "unfortunately" because wouldn't it be grand if I was done with this whole dating thing and instead could report, "Yippee, I found him. My Dreamboat. My Sweet Pea."

But in fact, after a good three months of searching, I'm not any closer to walking down the aisle (albeit for a third time) than when I began. Which is not to say it's been a waste. Far from it. All along the way, I've learned a multitude of things, about myself, about others and the world-at-large including:

1) Scoop-neck tops are for girls. Anyone older should stick with V-necks, particularly those that show a little cleavage.

2) To walk in 4-inch stilettos and not waddle like a walrus, tilt your upper body slightly forward and lead with your head.

3) Whole Foods sells a tinted, facial moisturizer that takes less than three seconds to apply and really does even out the skin tones --or so said my son after staring at my pores, before and after.

4) Always look a man straight in the eye, unless he's married, in the throes of divorce, or hates being alone.

And 5) That a lot of men (at least among the ones I meet) are on medication. But don't let this be disconcerting. As a psychiatrist friend asserts, the men who aren't probably should be.

Done is Done

Two friends on the same day posed identical questions. Why didn't you go out for coffee with the guy you met in Kinko's (Date #12)?

I had work to do, I explained.

So, you could have gone for ten or fifteen minutes.

Yeah, but...would you have gone, spur of the moment like that?

Absolutely. And normally you would have too. Why didn't you this time?

What can I say? I don't know. Was I being responsible? Following my instinct? Or was I simply afraid?

And if I was afraid, then of what? That I'd get bored? Have nothing more to say? Or that maybe he had potential?

And if he had potential, then what about the fact that his nose was a tad big and his lips thin? Or that he was a doctor and not a politician or a poet, like the last two men I'd fallen for? Or that he actually listened when I spoke and even asked questions?

And if this guy could carry on a thoughtful, two-way conversation, then that might mean I'd enjoyed myself, and want to see him again, and maybe even, dare I say it, like him. Yes, like him.

Oh my.

What's done is done. Still, yesterday after thinking awhile, I shot off an email. "Since you didn't follow up on that cup of coffee, thought I would." That was all. Nice and simple.

Minutes later, he wrote back. "Thanks for writing. Out of town...Crazy busy...Glad to have your email...Talk soon."

Will we? Who knows. We may have missed the moment. But I did learn something, as seen by the fact that later in the day when Date #11 phoned, I said yes to getting together, even though I could have drummed up a million and one reasons why not to.

Indigestion - Almost Date #12

I met a man at Kinko's yesterday while vocalizing my surprise that I'd have to use a credit card to cover 22 cents worth of photocopies.

My incredulity must have been a tad, dare I say, loud, because out of the blue this man on the other side of the store offered to let me use his machine and pay him the quarter.

How could I refuse? Thanking him, I made my copies, then asked what he was xeroxing. He asked me the same. I answered. And soon enough, one thing led to another, and I learned he was a doctor, originally from out East, with a couple kids and an amiable ex-wife, and did I want to grab a cup of coffee?

Yes, I did. But I had to get to work. Could we make it for another time?

Which was when it happened - that look of confusion mixed with guilt, flashing across his face. Within seconds, he regained his composure and entered my number into his phone. But the deed was done. I'd discovered his secret: He was unavailable.

My guess is he already had a girlfriend. A cup of coffee on the fly would have been nothing more than just coffee. But what I was suggesting constituted a date. And he wasn't going there.

Of course, I could be wrong. Maybe at the moment I suggested we meet another day, he'd been hit by a blast of heartburn or indigestion and that accounted for his strange expression. But until I hear otherwise, I'm sticking with my gut. This guy is taken and good for him.