One of the cruelest ironies of dating is that you really can't talk about the politics of dating with a person you’re on a date with—yet he is the one person who (theoretically) understands most closely what you’re feeling in that moment. But, ultimately, it would be like sharing your cards or detailing your “tells” with your opponents at a poker table. It simply isn’t done…by me, anyway. But as a dater—someone who believes love is possible for me again—it’s a hazard of the

He kept itching his nose--under his left nostril--intermittently until he tilted his head back so I could practically see up and into his brain. "Is it bleeding?" he asked. "What? Your Cerebellum?" I thought. But "no" is what I actually said. Nothing I could see was bleeding. At my breakfast. Where I was eating food. Food I wanted to eat blood-free. "See? I told you," he said finally, holding out the finger he'd been using to pick away at the scab under his nose. "Blood.

After one week on match.com I received an email that piqued (not "peeked" as another subscriber wrote) my interests because it was funny, razor-sharp and quick. Many emails, a phone conversation, and many more texts later found me on my first "first date" since 2001. Over the past few months--since the holidays, I suppose--I've been considering what should come next in my personal life. With a rich and supportive circle of friends--most of whom are coupled--I found myself as