I have to spend an hour with you now right?

The moment of anticipation is so sweet. There I am, dressed in my I’m-not-cheap-or-easy-but-I’m-sexy outfit, toes cramped into fabulous metallic pumps, perfume wafting, eyes darting side to side. My heart panics whenever someone opens the door to the trendy-but-not-overly-so wine bar I’m in. I’m ready. This could be it. This may be the last moment in my whole life that I say, “I’m single.” This could be the beginning of the story I tell my children about how their Dad and I fell in love over a bottle of oaky yet buttery chardonnay with hints of fresh cut grass and melon notes. This may be the moment my life as a Mrs. begins and my life of “I’ll pay the damn single supplement, stop asking” ends.

Oh my gosh! There he is. Wait. What? I mean, he looks something like his picture. Kinda. I recognize the hair, but instead of wearing the tux he was wearing in the picture at his best friend’s wedding, he’s in, God, is that flannel? With track pants? And mandals? This. is. not. good. Maybe he’ll walk by? Maybe that’s not him? Maybe I can pretend to not be me???

I hate that moment. I realize all the hoping and wishing and dreaming and planning is going to amount to an hour spent over a single beverage making small talk and wishing he would go away so I can start over in front of the keyboard, writing another anonymous email that begins with, “I liked your profile.”

On Sex and the City, Stanford was once left standing on a corner by a man with whom he’d exchanged emails who came up and immediately said, “I’m sorry, this just isn’t gonna happen.” Oh to have that cruel a heart! Or that honest a tongue! Instead, I end up saying, “I just ate” when asked by the waiter if I want food – no, no, no – food will prolong this trumped up waste of cocktails.

I’m not sure what’s worse- the hour of my life I’ll never get back, the small talk revolving around how he likes to be the Top Hat when playing Monopoly, or the disappointment suffered from dreams once again deferred. Now, it may be my fault that I’ve already figured out how this guy I’ve never met in person and I can make sure our inter-faith wedding doesn’t bother anyone by reminding them that Christ was originally a Jew, and isn’t the Hora the best wedding dance anyway? Who doesn’t love latkes and Hanukah candy? No, it’s the reinforcement that it isn’t happening. At least not now.

Back to the drawing board again. There are after all, plenty of fish in the sea. And I’ve got some damn fine bait.