‘Cuz Every Girl Wants a Badass Biker Boy

Working full time while taking a night class has seriously compromised my social life. Dating has rightly been demoted to the ranks of organizing my closet and cleaning out the fridge.

So now I live vicariously through my friends, who manage to endure their own share of dating horrors and man mishaps. I don’t even know how it’s possible, but their experiences manage to cross lines that need not be drawn! Here we begin the story of T’s encounter with a biker boy…

One of my friends (we’ll call “T”) met a guy through an online dating site. Yes, I know, I know: Did she learn nothing from my cautionary tales of woe? But T is, if nothing else, open-minded and, while not entirely sold on the tale of “happily ever after,” I think she reserves a marginal amount of optimism—well, at least she used to before her date with the biker boy.

T had been “talking” to this guy online, and he asked to meet her at 2 p.m. for some food and drinks at an Egyptian restaurant. They planned see a Beatles revival band afterward.

While at the bar, conversation flowed easily between them. At 3 p.m., T asked when the band started. Biker Boy revealed the band went on at 8 p.m.—six hours later! An eight-hour first date? What if the only thing they found they had in common was a strong desire to fast forward the rest of the evening or go to the restroom and sneak out the back door?

After numerous hours passed, they left the bar to make their way to where the band was playing. That’s when Biker Boy lobbed his first grenade.

“Ok, I have to tell you something. See that bike out there? That’s mine. I have two D.U.I.s, so I had to ride here.”

Hot Harley fantasy ends here dear readers: His ride was a Huffy.

TWO D.U.I.s. Unless conjugal visits are one of your role-play fantasies, this revelation translates to: “I’m irresponsible, immature, unable to learn from my mistakes, and I’m above the law.”

Oh, sure, it’s not like he said he was in the witness relocation program or that he blames his parents for his pesky crack habit, but a woman has to consider if it's a sign that a man has a drinking problem. In my experience, a man with a drinking problem is as alluring as a man who has pet monkeys.

I've been the woman wondering where my husband was at 5 a.m. only to find him passed out in a ditch or driving home drunk and cluelessly pulling into the neighbor's driveway. I've received the two-in-the-morning wakeup call from a drunk boyfriend needing yet another ride home from the other side of town. I've had one boyfriend pick a fight with me so loudly that my neighbor (in a HOUSE) came over to make sure I was O.K. (I was horrified). I've even had keys thrown at my head as I was leaving a man when he drank too much and tried to pick a fight. I may be many things, but I'm not going to be a victim or embarrassed in public by some man's inability to control himself. A drinking problem is and should always be a deal breaker. The public service announcement is over. Now back to our story.

Bad Biker Boy must have caught my friend at a weak moment, or the blast of his revelation left her confused and stunned because she continued to leave with him to see the band… on foot (smirk).

They walked several miles in the 90-degree heat of July (not exaggerating) to the park where the band was playing. A little stifling heat wasn’t going to get T down! If nothing else, she was getting the equivalent of a hot yoga workout and a blue-ribbon story to share on Monday at the office.

When they reached the park, the only sounds of the evening were the cracks of baseball bats. There was no band in earshot. Come to find out, there was no band period. Bonehead Bad Biker Boy either had the wrong night, the wrong park, or the wrong time (likely some unfortunate combination thereof). The date could either end on a humorous note, or continue to flail about until it wheezed its final breath and mercifully died.

I’m not sure what exactly was going through my friend’s mind as she and Bonehead Bad Biker Boy began their slow trek back to her car and his bike (still smirking). But I know exactly what she was thinking when, as they walked along in mutual disappointment, Bonehead did the unthinkable: He let loose another grenade via his rear. And then another.

Yes, that’s right: He was farting loudly and without apology.

My friend: “What the heck was THAT?”

Badass Biker Boy (in a tone suggesting T was ridiculous for even mentioning his transgression): “What? I had to fart.”

My friend: “But I can HEAR you, and I just MET you!”

Badass Biker Boy maintained: “What? I had to fart.”

He played it off as a natural, physiological event. Well, so are bad breath, wayward hairs, and body odor!

Knowing my friend, her brain was spinning with what to do with this situation and what it means about this guy. At some point during the walk, they decided to go back to his cave, er, house. I am of the opinion that his stink bomb actually deployed a neurotoxin of analgesic effect to temporarily prevented neurotransmitters in her frontal lobe from reaching their receptors, but I digress…

At his house, they sat on his deck and had a drink. T was trying to make the most of a botched evening while giving Badass Biker Boy the benefit of the doubt. Her reasoning was everyone takes missteps, and perhaps he had the best of intentions, but his execution was wrought with errors in judgment (I know, shocking). He wasn’t a horrible person, but he was a savant at demonstrating poor decision-making skills, and his good intentions came wrapped in a tacky sense of public (and first date) decorum.

Whilst T teetered on whether or not to consider a second date with Badass Biker Boy, a woman came sprinting up the yard screaming obscenities.

I can only imagine my friend expecting Jerry Springer to jump out from behind the bushes at any moment. The woman was yelling at Badass Biker Boy for having “another woman” in her house.

“My house?! You have another woman at MY HOUSE?!”

She screamed numerous colorful terms at Biker Boy, and she screamed at T for not noticing the “girlie knickknacks” all around “her house.”

My friend did what any self-respecting woman outside the ghetto would do: She picked up her keys and left without a syllable.

By Monday, my friend’s post-traumatic stress had subsided. This was truly a mismatch no matter how the online dating site sliced and diced their compatibility. In my experience, I’d have better odds meeting a quality man at a state fair than an online dating site.

I cannot begin to tell you the problems with Badass Biker Boy. It starts with the fact that he misrepresented himself. I promise you, no woman closes their eyes and dreams of a man riding up on his shiny, white Schwinn trailed by a cloud of gas. What’s more, who wants to step into a relationship riddled with drama from the onset?

Who was this ranting woman? His wife? His girlfriend? His clingy ex? Trust me: T didn’t care.

In summary, we don’t want YOU if you come with HER. Get your shit together and your past in the past before trying to plan our future. Seriously.

To make matters worse, “Farting Biker Boy” (his name forever more) continued to leave T voicemails and send her text messages for six months. He insisted to her that they were perfect for each other. Farting Biker Boy even tried to use his friends as references to convince T to give him a chance.

Sure some people out there don’t mind doormats. I’m sure some people prefer them. But trust me, my friend is not that person. For months, this guy tried relentlessly to break her down. And like any nice person, she declined politely at first, but her friends soon stepped in to do what needed to be done: Level with the idiot.

During happy hour one night, she received what was likely the 45th unsolicited text, and we took her phone. We threatened him with the police. One of the guys told Farting Biker Boy he was her boyfriend, and since he knew where he lived, he’d go over there and kick his ass if he ever contacted her again.

It’s confounding how severely we miscalculated Farting Biker Boy’s resistance to our insults, threats, and overt dislike. What did he do? He called her over ten times more that evening and sent her countless follow-up texts.

My friend’s final response to this harassment was to respond to him with silence. All normal people know what this means. Who hasn’t been the recipient of NOTHING? It’s the surefire, deadly precise way to get a message of disinterest across.

Why would a person want to pursue someone that has no interest in them? His modus operandi to woo a woman was to wear her down and feign crazy? Does Farting Biker Boy truly have a psychological problem, or has his technique worked for him in the past? While our friend may have dodged a bullet, she reeled from the shrapnel for many months.

Every girl wants a man to fight for her and prove himself righteous and deserving of her love, but not after one date. Hell, not even after several months of dating! Be serious: You’re just clingy! Or you’re crazy, and nobody likes crazy.

Farting Biker Boy’s persistence in the face of humiliation and his detachment from reality are simply unmatched. He should go into politics. He won’t even need to worry about those D.U.I.s.

Well, technically…

“Facebook is the Devil,” he said in an instant message.

Technology offers people countless options for communicating with those they care about, however, this convenience can make the message conveyed confusing and void of emotion.

With all her faults, however, Technology doesn’t lie. What’s more, after that bleak moment you lost your college term paper because you forgot to “save, and save often,” you learned she also doesn’t have your back.

* * *

My friend, we’ll call “Heather,” had been dating her boyfriend for a year, and by all accounts, she was happy. Though their relationship wasn’t ring-ready, it definitely wasn’t casual.

One morning while checking Facebook updates, she saw her boyfriend tagged in new photos posted by someone Heather didn’t know. Much to her dismay, there beamed her boyfriend, arms around a woman. He had apparently accompanied this woman to a party (as per the photo captions). Heather knew this woman was not Boyfriend’s relative. She clearly wasn’t a friend, either.

Boyfriend’s secret girlfriend tagged him in several photos taken while they were seeing each other on the sly. Note to Boyfriend: Never expect Technology to lie as well as you do. Either this other woman wanted Heather to know, or she also didn’t know Boyfriend belonged to someone else. Regardless, Heather suffered an emotional meltdown of humiliation and sadness.

In my own experience, I was reading my friends’ Facebook status updates. There, amid the requests for Mafia support and complaints about traffic was a status comment by the guy I had been dating exclusively for three months.

“Why don’t the ones you love ever love you back?”

My stomach dropped, I felt dizzy, and I wanted to beat the crap out of him. I knew he wasn’t talking about me. He updated his status with professions of continued love for his ex. Wow, warm fuzzies.

Before we started dating, I was aware that their breakup was not mutual. I urged him to try and win her love (and stop pursuing me) if that’s what his heart wanted. Naturally, he swore to me that he was over her and wanted to be with me.

His status comment exposed a great deal about his personality: He clearly didn’t even think of how humiliating this cyber-community revelation would be to the person he WAS seeing.

The honesty to which Technology restrains us isn’t isolated to the Web. Remember that sexy photo you sent your boyfriend when he couldn’t see you one weekend? He showed that to his friends. Why? Bragging rights, Girl! “Look how cool MY girlfriend is! And she’s hot!” Classy, that man.

How about the afternoon you blew a fuse using MapQuest on your boyfriend’s computer, only to circumvent an incoming instant message from his ex (the “one that got away”)?

One that Got Away: “Hey, Baby! I see you’re online! Miss you! How are you?”

You: “This is his girlfriend. I’ll relay your message to him whilst I kick his ass.”

One that Got Away: [Log off notification transmitted.]

Technology is even known to party crash an evening out with your friends. Lindsay Lohan particularly hates Technology for narking on her activities.

Out one evening, I hit it off with my friend’s boyfriend’s best friend. He asked for my number when the evening ended and called me to make sure I wasn’t having any trouble finding my way home. Later that night, I let him know via text message that my friend and I made it home safely. By morning, I received a reply:

“Teddy is married and has a new baby at home. Don’t contact him again.”

First, I was confused. Was this a joke? Did I accidently text the wrong person with the same name? My reply:

“EW! He’s married? What a pig! I had no idea!”

A half-hour later, I received a more confusing text telling me that Teddy was separated and that he did not cheat on his wife. To spare you the ridiculousness that followed, in summary, both Teddy and his poor wife were texting me from the same phone. Of course, Teddy didn’t know his wife was sneaking in texts to me on his phone. Not right away anyhow.

At one point, I didn’t know who was texting me. I didn’t want to talk to either of these crazy people, and I had to send both of them more than one message telling them to leave me alone.

Technology doesn’t just placate we humble, regular people. Politicians have been caught cheating on everything from their wives to the Berlin Marathon.

Ode to Technology

Try to finish the marathon while shaving 57 minutes off your time?

Madrazo’s fast one wasn’t that swift: Technology kept him in line.

An evening out to celebrate, Lindsay swears she kept things dry.

What to do when SCRAM narks on you? Say it was some other guy.

“It wasn’t me,” “I wasn’t there,” “I didn’t get your call,”

Lie after lie, time and time again, Technology knows it all.

There’s not much worse than Technology’s curse to keep you on your toes.

Looking for shoes when you should be earning your dues?

You’re caught: Browser froze.

Then there’s the converse relationship Technology has with Communication. While Technology affords us more opportunities to communicate with each other, it also enables us more reasons to avoid doing so. What’s more, when the content and the medium are truncated, so, too, becomes the sentiment we attempt to convey.

We’re expected to feel that someone’s sun rises and sets on us by way of a text message in 160 characters or less. Sentiments are stripped down to clever emoticons and barely decipherable text shorthand.

Personally, I miss sitting down, holding hands, and sharing my life in words with someone I care about. I also enjoy listening to what someone chooses to share with me.

Perhaps it’s because I studied communication that I appreciate it so much? The gestures, eye contact or lack thereof, inflection, breathing patterns, facial flushing, a wink, a smile, eyebrows raising, laughter, and even marked silence. Interpersonal communication involves a verbal or nonverbal message being conveyed. And, technically, true communication includes "feedback."

How many emails sit in your inbox, opened, but with no follow up? If someone’s standing in front of you and you ask them a question, sure, you could just stare at them, but you would appear very, very strange.

Remember the days of making someone you love a tape of songs? Gone the way of the love note, once written and then rewritten in careful penmanship on tediously neat stationery.

With all the reminders Technology provides us, we have no excuses for not keeping up with birthdays, anniversaries, births, and even relationship statuses. Celebrating a milestone? Evite! No need to visit your friends anymore: You can find out how their dental visit went while you check out their kids’ latest school pictures online.

Sure, ever evolving social media have connected us instantaneously to news of everything from your friend’s job offer to the 7.8 earthquake in China. I just hope this evolution doesn’t make wedding invitations, birth announcements, and holiday cards passé. Should that ever happen, though, we’ll know immediately. Fox News will Tweet about it in 140 characters or less.

Do it like they do on the Discovery Channel

“You’re too picky.”

“Give him a chance.”

“He’s employed and doesn’t live with his mother: What else matters?”

“What’s wrong with a pastel-plaid, short-sleeve, button-down dress shirt?”

Countless times, my friends and family tried to understand what suddenly turned me off of a seemingly reasonable, available suitor. Even more times, I’ve wondered why these same people think that because I’m single, and they know this single guy, we should date. This goes for you, too, Mom: the landscaper, the roofer, even the mortgage banker for the bank you picketed—really, Mom?

If you’ve ever dated, you know what I’m talking about. Sometimes, you don’t exactly know what’s off, but you KNOW something is off, and that’s enough. If you’re like me, you try to rationalize it some superfluous way: “He crosses his legs...like a girl,” “He wears mandals with socks,” “He’s a Cub’s fan,” “He wears mandals withOUT socks,” “What’s with the pinky ring there, Guido?”

Suppose you agree to meet your best friend’s boyfriend’s second cousin, Bob, who is divorced and moved here from Boston eight months ago... Bob is a terrific, nice guy! He dresses great, looks cute, has a fun accent, earned a degree in architecture from Yale, busts up puppy mills, and volunteers for Habitat for Humanity. Bob is paper-perfect, but the two of you quickly identify that there’s no spark.

Like shoes that don’t fit, you find that 5 hours is 3 hours too long. You can’t cut off your foot, but when you’re gimping your way through hour 4, you know you won’t wear those shoes again. It only takes a couple of minutes to turn a pinch into a blister.

The fact is someone else will be more than happy to walk 9 yards in your shoes.

* * *

While watching a science show one evening (this is the kind of thing single women do, contrary to what single and married men prefer to imagine), I heard a simple statement from a paleontologist channeling Darwin.

“The female of the species MUST be selective. She alone determines which traits are carried on to the next generation, and which die off for her species.”

I was instantly reassured. I wasn’t picky: I was selective!

Natural selection. Even females in the Jurassic and Cretaceous periods practiced natural selection—and were inarguably more successful than human beings today. Yes, dinosaurs eventually became extinct, but not as a direct result of natural selection. These creatures dominated the vertebrate world for over 160 million years due to their successful practice of natural selection.

A female triceratops, for example, would accept the male with the largest frill or the longest horns. Tyrannosaurus Rex had a considerably high brain-to-body size ratio and demonstrated comparatively evolved skills, making her particularly discerning of her mate selection. These females selected males with specific traits related to size and intelligence—key factors in survival for their offspring.

Many thousands of years ago, natural selection served a critical purpose in ensuring the survival of our own species into generations. Natural selection discouraged obvious genetic defects from being passed on to the next generation. Choice dominant traits were passed on, such as those for height, strength, and intelligence enough to run clear of the Mammoth stampede.

Think about it in your own life. The poor bird that kamikazes into the grill of your car...Strange, unmarried Great-Uncle Ed who can wiggle his ears...Paul Reubens...

* * *

Unless you live in The Hood, you probably aren’t looking for the biggest, baddest dude to be your baby daddy. No one is going to try and kick you out of your cave or eat your children. I do admit I stopped dating a really sweet, adorable guy that confessed he cut off and had reattached four of his fingers. He used a table saw when he was drunk. Do I want to tap that gene pool? That's just nine miles of bad road in all directions.

But what are we all looking for, I mean, once we're actually looking? What about ourselves do we use to attract and retain a partner? How do men feel about the playing field being more level today than 50 years ago? After all, women don’t need men to provide for them or their offspring. How does that fact affect a man’s pursuit of a woman—or even the type of woman he pursues?

Back in the dark ages, Ms. T-Rex was ahead of her time. She was smart, she was selective, and she was not to be taken lightly: She averaged 30% larger than the males that besought her. When Mr. T approached her, he did so knowing that if he so much as looked at her the wrong way, he’d be pushing up daisies. Yet, Mr. T bolstered his ego and did his damnedest to prove he was worth her time.

Did he insult her? Was he cocky? How did he earn the attention of such a bootilicious beastette? He was cautious, respectful, attentive, and he didn’t give her any crap.

With the qualities of a gentleman, he was not only allowed to live, but to also partake in The Cookie! And you know what else? Mr. T was a responsible mate that helped her raise their offspring. No kidding.

So what the eff happened to humans?

Natural selection used to be the master puppeteer behind The Hookup. Now, we have hairstylists, BMWs, Invisiline, and alcohol.

Let’s go there. The junk drawer. The back end of your closet. The fat jeans in your bottom drawer. The First-Names-Only Club in your cell phone.

We’re going to an area of your life you haven’t likely been in a while—an area you dread because it shines a spotlight on all the flaws in your design.

If you don’t know what you’re looking for, how will you know when you find it?

So, what are you looking for? What’s on YOUR list? More interesting though, how has your list changed over the years? The list you drafted while bleeding your heart out after The Big Breakup of 2007 can’t possibly be the same list penned into your diary on May 11, 1989 after prom went horribly wrong.

And what of your standards, which first reared their uptight heads when you gave it up to your boyfriend of two months after he presented his class ring and swallowed you up in an Air Supply song? Your standards are much more than “Must Love Dogs” by now.

How has divorce—yours, your parents’, your BFF’s—affected your list?

And how about the painfully recent dry spell even a camel would cry about? Yeah, we all know why you’ve been so cranky lately.

You may not know exactly what you’re looking for, but I’d bet your New Year’s date you know what you do NOT want. When I began dating after divorce, I had NO idea what I was looking for other than NOT HIM. Truly, I was undateable despite what men wanted to believe. In time, I came around to a less antagonistic point of view.

So before it’s too late and you find yourself having another “what was I thinking” moment and wishing you could bathe brain-and-body in bleach, do one thing your mama told you to do: Write down what you’re looking for in a life partner. 

Is he poetically articulate? Is she spunky and hilariously clever? Does it matter what he does for a living or how old she is? Does he need to know what a carburetor does?

And PLEASE, make your list before you make that second date or allow yourself to wonder “what if.” This is nonnegotiable. If you find yourself smiling all the time for no apparent reason or dusting the night tables on both sides of the bed, you’re too late.

If you try and make the list after, say the first great kiss, you’ll find the list surprisingly sounds like Ms./Mr. Right Now. 

Sure, sure, your next date may be your last first kiss, but this ain’t no Nora Ephron movie, and no one smiles about dial-up anymore.

It’s time to be selective. It's your right. You deserve the best.

Believe it.  

'Cause unless you’re looking for a Knights Inn, your only requirement shouldn’t be “availability.”

Miss Manners' Reservations at the Blind Faith Café

I recently agreed to two blind dates. Historically, blind dates bode about as well for me as my disconcerting encounters with porn.

Let’s see…I can thank my sister for my first blind date ever: a hottie hockey player with a melted wax skull on the top of his TV. Let me paint a better picture for you: This skull was off white and looked quite close to the exact size of a human’s skull. And it had been burned. Creep Factor Score: 4 out of 10.

Naturally I inquired because, geez, House of Horrors much? To my dismay, he clarified his interest in the occult, specifically Satanism. Fabulous! Creep Factor Score now 6 out of 10.

Why did I not freak? I suspect it’s a personality flaw, because I later dated a speed-metal drummer that had a plastic skull in the back window of his Camero. It only bothered me when it appeared to glow in the dark and roll from one corner of the window to the other during his frenetic turns. Even I’m wondering if I’m the dingbat in the movie that runs blindly alone down the dark hallway without trying the light switch first.

ANYWAY, Hottie Hockey Player came over to my family’s house (second date) to watch a movie. What does Dude bring? He brings the movie “The Entity” for all of us to watch. “All of us” included my mother, my 16-year-old sister and 13-year-old brother.

If you haven’t seen this creepy-ass movie, go right ahead. Lock your doors and windows, turn off your phone, and don’t watch it alone—it’s scary as hell. Scary “you’ll-remember-it-20-years-later” scary, not “Boo! Ha, ha” scary.

That was it for me. Creep Factor for even THINKING of this movie (which he had watched before) went up to 9. This same individual, whereupon I explained to him (on the phone and NOT while I was home alone babysitting) that I didn’t want to go out with him again, he freakin’ CRIED!

As if that weren’t already too much for me, he said that I shouldn’t be surprised if I feel like I was choking in the middle of the night. Say what??? Was this supposed to persuade me to go out with him again? He was supposedly going to let loose Satan on me. Get real. I told him I’m Catholic, and my God is stronger than Satan (there’s a 2000+ year-old book that explains this very clearly).

Suffice it to say I did not get choked by Satan or any of his minions, human or otherwise. I considered this a narrow escape from not even God knows what chaos was sure to follow this guy into the future.

After my first “blind date” misadventure, I decided this cliché activity was the Kiss of Death to the probability of a normal evening. I went on one other blind date when I was about 22, and it was just a case of very unfortunate mismatchmaking. One person’s “Cutie Patootie” is another person’s “I think I saw him on America’s Most Wanted.”

More recently I had a blind date with—wait for it—a doctor who was—gasp—a former college football player. Swoon! Bonus: He probably has a plastic skull laying around somewhere, too!

We arranged to meet at an Irish pub. My sister helped me with my hair, and I fretted with my clothes like I was in high school. I’d heard great things about this guy from a trusted source, so I was downright dippy with nerves.

My dates at the time had been dismal, so the words “my friend,” “doctor,” and “played football” rang in my ears like the lyrics to the song of angels. It was mine to screw up, or so it seemed.

I was ONE BLOCK from the pub when I received a phone call from The Good Doctor. He wasn’t finished with rounds, so he wanted to meet an hour later. I looked at the clock in my car and wondered why it didn’t occur to him to call me anytime sooner than exactly when I was supposed to meet him. Self, be understanding.

So I agreed to meet him at 3, and he was appreciative. I had an hour to kill, so I had my nails done.

An hour later, I found myself back in my car selecting a strategic place to park that would limit my hair’s exposure time to the dry, winter wind. I sat in my car for about eight minutes because no woman needs to sit by herself in a bar. Let’s rephrase: No woman CAN sit by herself in a bar. And this is an Irish bar…in a small, very friendly, blue-collar town.

Blind date = no idea what this dude looks like. I didn’t think to ask for a general description. Feeling moronic, I decided to sit at one of the only two seats in the far corner of the bar toward the wall just inside the doorway. In other words, I corned myself. I reasoned that this location should keep me out of the way and allow me to watch the door.

After 20 minutes and countless glances at my cell phone, I called my friend. He reassured me that his friend was probably running late at the hospital, but he admitted it was rude that Doc hadn’t called.

So I waited. Then like a pack of hyper puppies, six men loudly entered from another part of the pub and stood right next to me. To remind you, there was only one open seat near me. Now I was uncomfortable. Fat lotta good choosing the obscure corner did.

Over the next half hour, I’m pressured to do a shot of tequila (I declined). I’m grilled about how long I’d been waiting for my date (I’ve been stood up). I’m teased because he’s a doctor (apparently insecure men = insults). I’m told that I might have more fun if I “loosen up a little…” by a guy in Carharts and a John Deer cap who started drinking at 10 a.m.…for a baby shower!

I swear to God, they were there for a baby shower. One guy’s sister was having a baby with one of his friends. And two other guys in this group were his cousins. Hee-haw!

Disgust settled in when they realized how long I’d been waiting for my date, and they suggested I ditch the inconsiderate bastard. It was even suggested that my friend wasn’t much of a friend for setting me up with “this loser.”

I realized I probably looked like a paranoid schizophrenic mumbling to myself when a new guy came in the bar. I decided then and there that I’d never wait longer than 10 minutes for any man anywhere again. This was humiliating.

The group of guys was kind enough not to let me sit alone, but since chaining them to my chair was out of the question, I knew I'd be sitting alone again soon. When they finally were leaving, the man standing next to me the whole time handed me his business card, which resurrected my sense of humor: Only I would get hit on waiting for another date that was so late, he may as well not bother to show up.

I was alone now, and the rest of the bar was filling up. I could feel the people looking at me like they wondered how incredibly bad my day was that I would be drinking alone.

Time to phone a friend. I moved to a small table NOT at the bar and called my friend Julie to tell her my whole pitiable story.

It was now over two hours from the time I was supposed to meet this guy. Why was I still sitting here? Because he is my best friend’s friend. How late was too late? He was too late two hours ago.

Finally in the middle of my call with Julie, another call came in. It was McTardy. He was leaving the hospital in a few minutes. He apologized for how long I’d been waiting and told me I’d recognize him because he’d be wearing incredibly stylish scrubs.

I thought about the other “blind” dates I had through online dating. The sites included photographs of the man I was meeting, but they didn’t provide insight into his manners.

I’ve met several very accomplished businessmen that checked their mobile device countless times in the middle of a date, so much so in fact, I was inclined to inquire if everything was “OK.”

One of my personal favorites was a divorced man with a five-year-old son. He didn’t see anything inappropriate with his ex-wife, who was watching their son during our date, calling three times during the appetizer portion of dinner. He took every call, once even excusing himself from the table for three minutes.

Our waiter looked at me with sympathy—particularly so when we canceled our order to end the date early. This after my date had made a big production asking how exactly the food was prepared. Why did he end our date early? His ex-wife wanted to go to Target. Seriously.

Then I saw him walking up to the pub: McTardy, blue scrubs and all. Relief! Much relief! I hastily told Julie I had to let her go because my date was finally here—and he was handsome!

He apologized again and thanked me for my patience. We had a drink and an appetizer, and he asked me numerous, thoughtful questions about myself. He also kept watching the Illinois game on the TV above and behind me.

McTardy's lack of McManners didn't make him McDreamy, but he also wasn’t McHorrible. However, his TV fixation does highlight a larger, more concerning dating pandemic, as illustrated in my unintentional speed date...

I met a man out for a drink and conversation. He was on time, but 40 minutes into the date, he rang his hands in front of his face and said he felt “all woo-oo” and asked if I minded if we ended early: He was “really tired.”

I felt like the balloon that flies around the room making that funny deflating sound. Phtht. That was me. I spent longer getting ready than this date lasted! I didn’t even finish my glass of wine (though I did consider the appropriateness of downing it like a shot). As he walked me to my car, he asked if I’d be interested in going out again and if he could call me tomorrow.

On the drive home, I had to laugh: I’d never gone speed dating before, and I didn’t much care for it. I wasted my time picking out a nice outfit and doing my hair and makeup. I know I didn’t say anything stupid, and I acted with class and intelligence.

My mother convinced me to give him a break because maybe he did have a rough day. I’ve had countless days where I felt bitch-slapped by life, but I still put my best foot forward when I met someone new, gave them my full attention, and I didn't get “woo-oo” just because I was tired—we're all tired in our 30s!

In all seriousness, arriving late, unwarranted groping, taking phone calls from ex-wives, being hypnotized by a TV in the background (or a babe walking by), not calling when you say you'll call, and threatening to turn me over to the Prince of Darkness: these are NOT OK. These are men without class, so flunk ‘em with a big, fat “F” of sorts and be done with it. Did he just have a bad day, or are these behaviors harbingers of a bad mate?

I don’t expect him to be perfect, but I do expect him to try and convince me he is. If I asked my married friends, they would all say that the man they agreed to marry put his best foot forward—at least while they were dating (even Twinkies go bad after a few decades). If Maria's husband was late, it’s because he was buying her flowers. If Jason interrupted his date with Jenn to answer a phone call, his brother was letting him know his niece was born. If Brian was watching a game, it was with Christina by his side, and he brought her a hot dog and beer before she had to ask.

And some Prince Charmings just become the King of Hearts: Julie's husband goes out of his way—literally and voluntarily—to take her mother's garbage to the curb. Why? Because he knows how much Julie loves her mom.

With just as much intention, women present themselves to men on a date. We dressed up, fancy our hair, and pretty our makeup. We try and ask questions that he will find interesting and thoughtful. We lipstick-adorn our best smile in hopes of his lingering look at our lips. If I promise not to forget my lipstick, he can at least promise not to forget his manners.

Dating is nothing but blind when you think about it: Had I known my two-year relationship would unexpectedly come to an end after he brought up moving in together, I wouldn't have accepted a second date, but I couldn't foresee the future. I blindly trusted Mr. “I’m Separated” to actually get divorced. And like I'd ever imagine I would be sitting by myself for two hours in a bar waiting for my best friend's doctor friend?

So I will continue to put on my rose-colored glasses before each new date and wish I wasn't such a foolish mortal who cannot see through walls.

I’m a loser, Baby, so why don’t you…

I remember very pointedly considering if and how I should tell my boyfriend that I loved him. When I thought about it, I was filled with, of all things, terror. The gut-wrenching, wanna puke kind of terror. Why terror? Because I knew saying those three words would forever change our relationship in one way or another. We’d either leap hand-in-hand one giant step forward or we’d never see each other again. It’s quite a dramatic step, you see, because you never tell someone you love them unless you are prepared to watch them walk away.

Relationships, like everything of any significance in our lives, involve a lot of losing in hopes of gaining something else. We all go into a new relationship with miles of things stacked up to lose. Whether you lose your sensibility when your eyes first meet from across the room or you lose your cool trying not to say something incredibly stupid, you voluntarily take a risk on a complete stranger.

Remember when you first saw the love of your life? Undoubtedly you remember this moment very clearly because you felt electrified, all thanks to your fight or flight response. Whether you can map a genome or earned a doctorate from Harvard, your body still cannot distinguish between different types of stress. The chemicals adrenaline, noradrenaline, and cortisol (not found in the beer you were drinking) rushed through your bloodstream, causing the room to shrink in on itself. You started breathing heavily. Your heart raced in your throat, choking out any chance for clever repartee. Your face flushed and your hands became clammy.

Well, you obviously didn’t make a complete idiot of yourself or your love found your ramblings endearing, so things became serious. Your relationship progressed. In one singular moment either celebrated or bemused, you lost your virginity. This is a revelation unto itself because you lost something intangible until the moment it’s gone and you realized you can never get it back. You lost your innocence.

Eventually, you lost your heart—by freely giving it away. I’m not talking about puppy love or the crush you had in grade school. I’m talking about that gut-check love when you fall hard and it knocks the wind out of you. That’s really a miracle by any definition when you think about it: falling in love. How do two people lose themselves in each other only to find something even bigger together than the sum of their parts?

Sometimes in the course of a relationship, you lose your direction, your sense of humor, or your temper. In these moments, your better half may suddenly find out things you wish were never revealed—your weaknesses, your fears and insecurities. When this person you love still loves you in spite of yourself, you find hope. You discover you have found something worth keeping—someone worth holding on to.

We’ve all reached those pivotal moments in our lives where we find out what we’re made of and how strong we really are. Those are the moments when you focus on putting one foot in front of the other knowing if you keep moving, you just might get out of Hell before the Devil even knows you’re there.

That’s what it means to be between two marriages: Finding your way without a compass. You just keep moving ahead and hold on to the faith that gave rise to your surrender in the first place: That you will be in exactly the place you are supposed to be when the right person finally finds you.

So after losing much sleep, I decided to tell someone I cared more than just a little about him. If either of us lost our lives the next day, I wanted him to know how I felt about him—that he was important to me. We’d been dating several months and were exclusive. He remembered my favorite ice cream, which I mentioned on our first date, and he drove to four stores just to surprise me with it months later. We laughed together and shared secrets with each other. Everything unfolded so naturally.

So I let those three words pass through my lips.

Without even turning to look at me, he replied, “Thank you.”

I knew in my heart that no matter how I felt, he was never really mine to lose.