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was liberating to know that I could pick and choose who I responded to.

    Days turned to weeks, and the mail kept flowing in. I now had a new hobby, one that stroked my ego and temporarily pulled me out of my ennui. It was positive reinforcement on steroids, and like an addict, I checked my email throughout the day. At eight ’o clock, when lights were out, kids in bed, I’d lock myself in my office for the rest of the evening—reading, searching, replying . . . At this point, I’d even begun flirting with a few: “Dear Stuart, you flatter me, but I could say the same about you. You look as hot as you are smart . . .” Communicating by email felt so safe and nonthreatening, I found that in this suspended reality, I could set all my pain and loneliness aside and be candid and flirty, daring or thoughtful, without rebuke or self-consciousness. It was empowering.
    It became so all-consuming that come morning, as soon as my kids were fed, I’d race downstairs in my slippers and log on again. I even checked my mail in the middle of the night. God, how I hated the night hours. If and when sleep finally found me, I’d often wake up worrying—no, panicking —about my life, ruminating over my past, my body cold with stress. It seemed I could divert myself during the day, but whenever I tried to sleep, my subconscious mind went into overdrive, desperately seeking answers, frantic to help me chart a True North again.
    So instead of lying in bed, deluged by melancholy and playing the same mental tapes over and over again, I would put on my housecoat, go to my computer, and log on.
     
    FINALLY, I AGREED to meet a man from the dating site. His name was Cal, and he apparently worked in executive management. At thirty-seven, he was also separated with two kids. Through our fifty email exchanges, where I’d bombarded him with questions, I’d deduced that he was a family man, a man with strong values, the kind of man a woman in my position should date. It also didn’t
hurt that he was pretty good looking, too: clean shaven with sandy brown hair and intense hazel eyes.
    I sat in the coffee shop with my eyes glued to the front entrance. I was a bundle of nerves. This was a huge step for me—my first real date in over a decade—and my first foray out with a man since Graham. My stomach wouldn’t let me forget it. It helped that I felt confident about how I looked: My dark jeans and fuchsia wrap-shirt accentuated my slim figure; and my hair, which I wore loose and wavy down my back, had been freshly highlighted. My freckled skin looked healthy and clear, with minimal makeup, and I’d applied a fresh coat of lipgloss in the car. Good to go . . .
    As I sat there clenching and unclenching my tea mug, I worried, Oh, what if he’s unattractive? His profile said he was six-foot-three and 240 pounds. I’d never been out with a man that big before. Robert and Graham were both over six feet tall but on the slender side—that’s what I was used to, so that’s what I preferred. But Cal said he was a former defenseman in the pro hockey league. Surely he must be muscular. God I hope he isn’t fat, I thought, and then I quickly chastised myself. Do I really even want to do this . . . ?
    Fifteen minutes later, he still hadn’t shown. I began to panic. Am I to be stood up on my first date? I thought. Well that’s just great . . .
    Elbows deep in my purse, I was scrambling to find his phone number when a giant-sized man in an elegant grey suit lumbered into the cafe. He walked right up to me and offered me his big hand and a smile. “Hi, Delaine,” he said. Deep voice . Nice. “I’m Cal. I’m so sorry I’m late. I had to park about ten blocks down the street. I’m just going to run to the bathroom, okay?”
    “No problem,” I said, sneaking a long peek at him as he walked away. I shifted my purse onto the vacant chair beside me and smiled. Thumbs up to him being attractive, polished, and very masculine. My nervousness turned into