Amy Everhart

Each Monday night I prepare for my standing date. I pull on my romantic floral-print PJs, pour myself a glass of red wine to take the edge off, and plate up whatever chocolate is lying around the house. Then I sink into my couch to spend the evening with my favorite bachelor. 

“I won’t even look for a mate until my house is clean,” my friend announces when I ask her about her dating life.  I don’t have the heart to tell her, but my friend, who diagnosed herself a hoarder after watching that “Hoarders” show on A&E, will never pair up if she has to make room for him first.

This is the year. 

This is the year I’ll bring him home for Christmas. 

This is the year I’ll walk through cobblestone streets shopping with him, a light snow falling (but not flattening my hair) while I warm my hand in his coat pocket and we feed each other roasted chestnuts, stopping afterward to share a hot chocolate. 

Sheryl Crow said love is free, but I’m starting to wonder.  This email from Match.com appeared in my inbox today: “Love is on sale: save 25% this fall!” Then there was my recent run-in with a singles group we’ll call “Happenings & Activities” for purposes of this story.

I looked up the word “solo” today on Thesaurus.com, not because I’m obsessed with my singlehood, but because I was searching for a column title about my solo law practice for a legal newsletter. The results, nonetheless, beg to be shared with all of singlekind. 

I’m not ashamed to admit I’m a card-carrying member of Match.com. Dating’s tough, my friends, and you might as well explore all your options. But I’ve been on these dating websites so long that lately the online dating profiles are starting to sound like a broken record. Like digging through a table of sweaters at a garage sale and finding every sweater the same old same old — beige with a hole in the armpit. Here’s my (annotated) version of the typical profile I’m finding on the online-dating shelves these days:

It’s August. Get out the party favors. It’s time for my annual exam.

I attended several summer camps as a kid.  Music camp, Bible camp, even writing camp.  But regardless of the theme, the main reason I went to summer camp (besides my parents signing me up to get my bored summer self out of their hair) was to socialize, gain new pen pals, and maybe secure my first kiss, or at least my first dance, with a boy. Why is it that I never had trouble meeting a good guy back then? Thinking back on those carefree days, I can see why I was luckier in love. Below, lessons we can learn from a typical day at summer camp:

I’m so excited. The Facebook quiz writers — those anonymous crystal-ball gazers of the digital age — are about to reveal the name of the man I will marry. No more trying on Toms, Dicks and Harrys of all shapes and sizes. Now I’ll be able to focus on Tom. Or Dick. Or Harry.