Am I dating?

I’ve been here four months and everyone always asks. I like this question for two reasons.

For one, it’s a conversation stopper. In a word, no, I’m not.

But on the other hand, it’s a conversation starter: well, why not?? I’m single. It’s the city of loooove. I came in the spring, and now it’s summer. All of these factors should be aligning to create a sizzling dating season with infinite opportunities.

So I have to examine why I’m still single. It’s certainly not by choice. God, I would love to meet someone. But so far, I’ve only met three twenty-somethings, none of whom seems to be an appropriate match.

There was the infamous 28-year-old Swede.

Then, on holiday with Mel, I met a 26-year-old Brit. He’s a doll. But he’s 10 years younger than me. And he lives in another country.

And then there’s the young one at work. Adorable. Sweet. But adorable, sweet, young, and a colleague.

So I keep trying. There was the guy at the Pretenders concert, who was older than me. I thought that could have been something. But now he’s on a month-long vacation with his 11-year-old daughter so I’m pretty sure that’s going nowhere.

I also met an intriguing guy—my age—at an art gallery party over the weekend. But I suspect he is more fascinated with himself than by me. Another dead end.

So, no, I’m not dating. Which I find both funny and pathetic. But c’est la vie.