"I See You, But You Don't See Me"

"I See You, But You Don't See Me" is what Steve, the self-described "Jewish Richard Gere," texted me while I was trying to spot him at United's baggage claim. Bad sign, I thought. I'm really good at spotting people in a crowd, but I guessed he probably didn't look much like his profile pic on Millionaire Match. An uneasy feeling grew in my stomach. I wondered why I had been driving my car around LAX, picking up a total stranger in the first place.

My girlfriend Sandy called, asking if there was any chemistry between me and Steve. "I don't know yet," I said, "I haven't seen him. United lost his bag, so I have to keep driving around the airport until they find it," I told her. "You're picking him up Carolyn?" she exclaimed, "The kind of guy you want to meet, is the kind of guy who gets his own car and picks you up". She was right. I shouldn't be picking up random strangers at LAX, who I met online.

This was the first time any man had flown to L.A. for the sole purpose of meeting me, so I didn't know what the proper etiquette was. I figured if a guy was buying a plane ticket and booking a hotel room, the least I could do was pick him up. Steve never mentioned getting a rental car and had always assumed I would pick him up anyway. His email had said, "So.....How do you want to arrange the airport? Curbside? Meet me at the gate with flowers and...dark chocolate (my favorite), marching band (a little too much maybe)?" his 'humor' foreshadowing a potentially tragic weekend, I thought.

Ten minutes went by. Another text appeared. "I am ready for a cocktail now." Hallelujah! Surely this was code that Steve's luggage was found and I was closer to a stiff martini (or four). I pulled up to baggage claim, but still no sign of Steve. I texted him, asking where he was. "Still waiting for my luggage," he wrote back. Oy vey... this "Jewish Richard Gere" better be great.

Uh oh, he's reading my mind, I thought as I read his next text. "I'm worth it," he wrote. The traffic cop flashed his light on me yet again, and motioned me to move on. I found a place to pull over and park. I sat quietly for a few moments, took a deep breath and told myself that everything was going to be ok. Maybe the recent corny emails and texts were because Steve was nervous to meet me too. And I was going to do my best to have a positive attitude and a nice evening.

"You miss me?" he asked. I had not noticed a tall, lone figure approach my car. Steve leaned in my window (a little too close for my taste) and took my hand. I looked at him. Steve said he was 55, but I thought he was 60 and looked nothing like Richard Gere. He wore business slacks, a grey henley under a black v-neck sweater, a blousy tan jacket and thick soled Florsheim's. His clothes were baggy, most likely hiding an out-of-shape physique. Steve got in and buckled his seatbelt. I wanted double olives in that martini.

I have a strange man in my car. I am not initially attracted to him and I'm supposed to entertain him tonight and tomorrow.

As we drove along, I found myself working really hard to have a pleasant conversation. We made it to Cecconi's, one of my favorite restaurants in L.A., in record time. I ordered a sour apple martini and wondered if they offered it intravenously. He ordered a kamikaze and took careful sips. He was hungry and ordered the eggplant parmesan. He took a bite and said, "Oh this is good, you've got to try this" insisting on feeding me. As the spoon neared my face, sauce dripped off the sides, landing on my jeans.

How was I going to spend the whole next day with this guy? I waited for the alcohol to take effect. I ordered another and tried to remember what we had in common and what originally drew us together.

We both had reached out, looking for a connection that could possibly lead to a nurturing, long-term relationship. We each had made significant arrangements to finally be sitting next to each, after our initial contact one week prior. "Chemistry" I thought, "you're an elusive beast." Steve reached over and put his arm around my waist. I then watched his hand as it slid down my hip onto my thigh. He was testing the water and I wasn't jumping in.

The next morning I picked Steve up from his hotel and drove to the beach for brunch. "Did you want to get coffee on the way," I asked. "No, thanks. I had chamomile tea. I have so much energy, I didn't want to be too much for you today." Steve often spoke of his athletic prowess and high energy, but I didn't see it.

Once at the restaurant, we had a pretty interesting conversation about our families. But, he started repeating some of the same stories he had told me on the phone. "Yeah, I remember that story. You told me that one on the phone." I said. "Well, maybe I did tell you that story, but I didn't tell you the part about the encyclopedias. That part was new." "Oh, right, tell me more." Is it noon yet?

After brunch, we decided to go back to Hollywood and see a movie. As I was driving through the Wilshire corridor, Steve mentioned that this was the area where one of the women he previously met online lived. She had invited him back to spend the night at her condo, even though, according to him, she was bitchy to him during their date. "I turned her down," he said. I wasn't completely sure of his purpose in telling me this. "Is this the woman who didn't want you touching her $2,500 golf bag or the one who wasn't happy you showed up wearing Birkenstocks?" I asked.

At dinner that night Steve asked me how he thought our date was going. I reviewed his qualities in my head. He was nice guy and he was very pleasant. He was a gentleman and he was also somebody's father. I wanted to be honest with him in a respectful way. I told Steve that he was very easy to talk to, and that I had had a nice time with him, but ultimately I didn't feel any chemistry with him. "Ok," he replied. "So where do we go from here?"

Sometimes I Wonder if there's Something Wrong With You...

Sometimes I wonder if there's something wrong with you that I don't know about since you're still single," said Peter. I was hurt by his comment since I've known him for ten years and we've had many honest conversations about relationships. Not to mention, I have spent countless hours listening to his various marital problems. "Would you consider me normal if I was in an unhappy marriage like yours?" I replied. "Good point," he admitted. "Sorry."

Since I have never married, the question I am often asked is, "Do you think you're afraid to commit?" I didn't think so, but honestly, I don't know. Maybe I am afraid to commit, or maybe I just haven't met the right guy yet. Admittedly, now that I'm getting older (and my life span shorter) committing to someone for the 'rest of my life' doesn't seem so daunting. "How will I ever know if I'm truly in love, and with the right man?" My sister-in-law told me once "well, you just know when you know, and I knew with your brother." They were were married for 14 years before they divorced.

I wondered if maybe I had passed up an opportunity to marry a good man. I thought back over the handful of relationships I had early in my dating career. My very first was "Rick". He frequented the restaurant, where I worked as a hostess during my senior year of high school. It was a conservative eatery where the pudgy manager often rolled his eyes when I wore outfits he thought too fashion-forward for conservative St. Louis. He threatened to make me a busboy once, when I wore a black Norma Kamali sweetheart top, white pleated skirt and red stiletto pumps (topped off with big 80s hair and jewelry). However, it was this particular outfit that captured Rick's attention.

Rick was 25, divorced, had thick auburn hair, not much of a chin and a big nose. Frankly, he looked like a totally buff, but younger Barry Manilow. He sat at the bar each night, stealing glances each time I passed. I could feel his eyes on me and I liked it. I was 18, a virgin, and my hormones were raging. I fantasized about him seducing me... his breath on the back of my neck as his hands grabbed my waist and pulled me in close, kissing me deeply, just like a bad romance novel. "That will be $18.75," I said to a father paying the dinner tab, eyes half-mast, jarred out of my fantasy. Dreaming of Rick seducing me made tedious work hours tick by.

After a week of unrequited desire, I approached Rick and asked if he would like to take me out sometime. Two nights later we had many drinks and ended up on the floor in his office, narrowly escaping a security guard doing his rounds. I was nervous as he looked deep into my eyes and took me. The next day, Rick sent flowers to work with a card that read "thank you". The waiters gave a nod by leaving a small dish of maraschino cherries on the hostess stand. I never saw Rick again... end of trashy romance novel.

Next was Pat, a big drinker, pot head and failed screenwriter I met in NY in my early 20s. He was my roommate for 6 months before he wore me down into being his girlfriend. Our relationship ended after I hit the redial button on the phone, thinking I was dialing my mother and, instead got an answering machine with a young, female voice talking in a thick Chinese accent, "Hello, me not home right now (giggle) peas leave message and I call you sweetie". I didn't think much of it at first, but then came home the next day, the day after that and the next and was greeted by the same message each time I checked the redial function. I wasn't sure if Pat had another girlfriend or was seeing a prostitute. I didn't stick around to find out.

Then there was Tom, who was on the cover of TV Guide as one of the "Hunks of Hollywood" during the late '70s. He had been on a huge hit TV show, but was now doing musicals on Broadway and recording a country album with his band. We dated for a year and I was the love interest in one of his music videos. But, while he was on the road touring with his band, he got some girl pregnant, married her and didn't tell me, until she was nearly in labor.

"Maybe you're just too picky," said an unpleasant woman recently at a dinner party, who is married to a drab man with deep pockets. Well, shouldn't I be picky if I'm looking for a man to spend the rest of my life with?

Maybe there is something wrong with me, but for two hearts to want the same thing, and follow the same path is truly a miracle. I can't just make that happen. However... I do dream of having a relationship with a man, that no matter how much or how little we have, we still have each other.

(Part 1) It's An Odd Feeling When A Date You Don't Know Cancels

I started online dating again. In the past, I was on Match and, with the exception of a few guys, I met a lot of... characters. None of the men looked like their pictures and two showed up wearing Hawaiian shirts. I try to experience every date like a new adventure, but the guys I met on that site had to be the most lackluster men in L.A. I remember meeting Larry, a real estate insurance claims investigator, at his favorite chain restaurant (this last sentence would have been more than enough warning for any woman not to go). I stared into my glass of bad red wine, trying to visualize where all the exits were located. Maybe during his long pontification, I could sneak out undetected through the side door. But no, I was sentenced to two hours before he took a breath, and I could interject to say my parking meter had surely run out.

I tried eHarmony too and met one very smart, interesting man. My initial impression of Mark was that he was gay. He worked in publishing, looked about 50, was dressed nicely but just seemed to be more effeminate than any straight man should be. He was also the ex-husband of a very wealthy woman, who is a friend of my former boss... which made me feel immediately insecure because she makes 100 times more money than I do. We sat at the bar and talked for two hours and never experienced a pregnant pause. But, it was getting late and, although I enjoyed my time with Mark, I did not have any romantic interest in him, and I suspected he felt the same way toward me. As I thanked him for the drinks and stood up from my barstool, he took particular notice of my footwear and complimented me, "Those are beautiful shoes you have on," he said. I was wearing a pair of Pradas I purchased at the end-of-a-season sale from Neiman Marcus 5 years ago, and realized Mark probably already knew that.

If I never went on another dating site in my life, I could die a happy woman. But I had lunch with a business associate last week who mentioned his son met "a really fantastic girl" on "Millionaire Match". "They've been dating for over a year," he said. I had checked out Millionaire Match in the past but felt artificial trying to find a man based solely on his net worth. However, you don't have to be a millionaire to be on the site and, in order to write about dating, I have to actually go out on a few dates, so I pulled up the website and joined.

The next morning I had multiple emails in my inbox from potential suitors. The first guy I clicked on had put me in his 'favorite' box. He was nice looking, so I read his profile and thought that we had common values and interests. I sent him a brief email. He called me later that night and I immediately liked the sound of his voice, which was kind and soulful. Our conversation lasted for a couple of hours, covering a lot of personal ground. The anonymity of a few photos and a phone provided free license for an open and honest conversation with a total stranger. Closely examining Steve's picture, he told me that he was often referred to as the 'Jewish Richard Gere,' which is ironic since people tell me I look like Julia Roberts because of her big, red curly hair in "Pretty Woman" (and I'm friends with the "Latino Richard Gere"). Steve's a native New Yorker from a prominent family, who now lives in a small town in Northern California-- 374 miles away, according to Millionaire Match.

Other notable emails included a dinner invitation from a 6'6" Yugoslavian man in Santa Monica, WHO TYPED ALL IN CAPS. Six feet, six inches, is really tall. "Oxygen doesn't travel to the brain the same way when you're that tall," noted a male friend. "I'd be careful with that one." A very handsome Italian man in San Diego sent me an email that said, "I don't like name Carolyn, I'm calling Carmela". I thought he was making some obscure reference to "The Sopranos," but no, he just didn't like my name Carolyn and was calling me Carmela. The last email from him that I read said, "Can u make me a star like clooney status???? Lol". (Part 2 continued below...)

(Part 2) It's An Odd Feeling When A Date You Don't Know Cancels

I also received an email from a "75% Italian and 25% Persian" Beverly Hills plastic surgeon, whose specialties are noses and boobs. Danny's profile said he was 40, but he looked more like 50. He emailed me his phone number and wrote "call me". However, my own experience has proven that I have much better luck when a guy is pursuing me, so I emailed him back with my number instead. "How much do you weigh?" he immediately asked. "138," I responded. I weighed myself that morning and knew I was 141, but "130-something" sounds much better than "140-something" so I lied about 3 pounds. "Have you ever had any work done?" "No," I said. I understand the attraction to plastic surgery, however needles, botox and cutting flesh scare me. He directed me to his website to prove he was really a surgeon. There were 'before' and 'after' pictures posted of a nose job and a breast enhancement. I have to admit the new boobs looked really natural. "Would you ever have yours done?" he asked. "I like my breasts," I said, "So, no, I would not 'enhance' them". Was he looking for a date or more clients?

Our superficial conversation carried on for about 15 minutes. He told me that he had only met two women from the site. The first 'woman' he met actually turned out to be a man and the second woman was 200 pounds heavier than the picture she emailed him, which is why I didn't take offense to his pointed questioning. However, since he was being blunt, I also took liberty. "You look older than 40 and you sound tired," "That's because I haven't slept in 9 years," he responded. "Everyone thinks I'm older because most of my friends are doctors in their 60s." He then asked if I drank and what kind of alcohol I prefer. Red wine or vodka are my typical choices. "What about tequila?" "Yeah, tequila's ok," I answered. "We should get along just fine." he said. I didn't feel like I had much in common with Danny, but I didn't know anyone like him and thought dinner could be an interesting and colorful experience. I agreed to meet him later, after his soccer game. "What are you going to wear?" Ballsy question, but clearly he was gunshy from his two prior, shocking experiences. "A black dress and heels," "What length?" he inquired. "To the knee," I replied. "I like black," he stated, "Now it's your turn to ask me questions." I didn't need to. I knew more than enough.

A few hours later, Danny called. We talked for a bit about his soccer game, before he said he was really tired and just wanted to get home, shower and go to bed. He cancelled... After 9 years, he finally wanted to go to sleep. I had rearranged plans to accommodate dinner with him. It was an odd feeling to have a date with someone I didn't even know, cancel on me. He asked if we could reschedule next weekend. "Can't. I have a friend coming into town."

So here I was on a Saturday night, content watching the SAG Awards (I wanted Jeremy Renner to win for THE HURT LOCKER!) when I received an email from Steve that said "... stop looking at all those boys online, you have a date!!!" My 'friend' coming into town next weekend is Steve, the Jewish Richard Gere. He booked a hotel room and a ticket to L.A. Yikes... I hope we have the same chemistry in person that we have on the phone.

"You're Like A Dude With Boobs..."

...said David, "and I mean that as a compliment." I was in Salt Lake City with David, Kyle and Bob. We had just wrapped a shoot and were eating and drinking at an Italian restaurant, before catching our plane back to Los Angeles. I accepted what David said as a compliment, but then wondered ultimately if I had lost my femininity around men. I grew up with three brothers, I work in a male-dominated industry, my friends are mostly men, and I enjoy the company of men. I'm around men 24/7, yet I'm single and date infrequently. Have I become too much like one of the guys that men aren't interested in me as a woman anymore?

"If I keep eating this way, I'm going to look like a dude with boobs," exclaimed Bob. I laughed as I contemplated my predicament.

My insecurities rose to the surface. Do I need to be more feminine? Should I change my wardrobe? Let's face it, working in independent film and on nonprofit videos, doesn't leave me with much discretionary income for clothing. Teenagers in Los Angeles have a better wardrobe than I do. Maybe I need to dress sexier. Hmm.

Yesterday, I met Tom Ford at the Spirit Awards brunch. I introduced myself and told him our movies were nominated in the same category. I was quite taken by how exceptionally polished and handsome he is up close. Most celebrities look quite different in person, but Tom Ford, wearing his signature sunglasses, could have walked right out of a color, glossy, high-fashion magazine ad. Not a whisker was out of place. He's undeniably handsome and has a movie star look. (I predict Tom Ford will be starring in his own next film). A photographer approached us, asking to take our picture, so we turned and I placed my hand on the back of his 'Tom Ford' jacket. "Oooh, cashmere" I cooed. "This is the most casual outfit I have," he said. "Really?" I said, "This is the most dressed up I get." "No, I do have jeans," he corrected before he graciously exited. I began to assess my own outfit: my favorite J Brand jeans, Zara jacket, Hugo Boss white-collared shirt and Charles David shoes. Oh god, did I really just introduce myself to Tom Ford looking like this? I quickly reassessed the room of independent filmmakers and took solace in the fact that ok, I think I fit in just fine with everyone else.

Slightly frantic however, I called my brother Leo and asked him if he thought it was bad to be called 'a dude with boobs'. "Well, I don't think it's good," he said, "Objectively speaking, you're pretty and sexy so that's not an issue. But you 'don't suffer fools gladly' and men don't want someone to call them on their bullshit." He's right, I thought. And working in the entertainment industry for the past 20 years, certainly hasn't made me any softer. I contemplated a past relationship. My biggest problem with Kent was that he never dealt with any of his own personal issues. He literally and figuratively swept everything under the rug. It was hard for me to respect a man who wasted opportunities to learn and grow. But, at the very least, I knew after speaking with my brother, that my problem wasn't with my wardrobe.

"Men like that moment of surrender,'' said Ivan, a friend of mine for ages, "That's what it's all about, that moment when the woman surrenders to you". I understood immediately. I know the moment he described and any woman who has ever read a romance novel knows that moment too. Many women's fantasy is to be seduced and eventually succumb to their ideal man. I am no different. But, how could I ever 'succumb' and be 'conquered' if I was considered to be one of the guys?

I did not know where to turn for an answer so I decided to call David and ask him to explain exactly what he meant. "You are very comfortable hanging out with men and can laugh at the same stupid things guys laugh at without acting superior like some women do, especially when it gets really raunchy." Ok, but I asked him if I lost my femininity in the process? "No, Carolyn, besides having red hair, you're a ball of fire," he stated, "You're smart, in touch with your emotions, honest, tall, have long arms..." My confidence was coming back (but is having long arms a good thing? "...but men are fearful of these things and because you are powerful, I think you scare guys off." Oof. I have heard this before... many times. I was sinking back into insecurity. But what do I do? If I had the answer, I wouldn't be writing about my experiences looking for a meaningful relationship in Los Angeles. But what I do know is my life would be a lot less rich if I didn't know all the men who are in my life-- including David who has an amazing wife and kids, is very close to his mother, easy to talk with and completely comfortable around women. As a matter of fact, I thought, David, you're just like a "chick with a penis."

Never Bring a Handsome Man to an Event with Single Men...

...I learned this very important lesson last night. Never be with a handsome man when you're trying to meet single guys. Maybe you already know this (clearly I wasn't thinking) but men lose interest if you are with someone better looking than they are. A client kindly invited me and a guest to a fundraising dinner where one of the videos I produced was being shown to the audience. This particular nonprofit provides free legal services to the underprivileged in Los Angeles and many of their clients are Hispanic. I invited my friend Ivo to join, because he had translated all the Spanish interviews during production and I thought he would be interested in seeing the finished product. There were approximately 950 people attending, mostly attorneys, mostly men and many of them single. I was looking forward to attending.

Once I arrived, I ordered a glass of red wine to help take the edge off of my busy day and feel more confident talking with random strangers. I walked around the crowded room, and came upon three attractive men, who were all probably mid 40s and single (i.e. they weren't wearing wedding rings). They happened to glance over and, as I started to smile, I noticed that any glint of interest, or hint of a smile faded, as Ivo approached from behind me and stood by my side. What was I thinking?! Ivo is an exceptionally handsome man. He is from Argentina, a famous telenovela actor and was in PEOPLE Magazine a handful of years ago as the "Latino Richard Gere". What man in his right mind would approach me to talk if I'm with one of the most handsome men on the planet? Right! And no one did!

I've known Ivo for 7 years and have witnessed women fly across the room, shove me in the chest and stomp on my foot in order to get close to him. He has that charisma that has brought him just as much heartache and pain, as joy to his life. So, what did I do since I was interested in meeting single men but I am with one of the most handsome men in the world? Am I an idiot? Here I am with one of the most handsome men in the world, watching a video I produced on a big screen in front of many people. It was an amazing evening and it was nice to be able to share that experience with one of my closest friends.

What is the Most Important Trait You Look For in a Man?

Intellectual compatibility is at the top of my list. But I'm not deluding myself into thinking that's what men look for in women.

You know when you see those couples sitting across from one another where the guy is far from good-looking and the woman is outrageously gorgeous, and she's going on and on about whatever-it-is-that-she's-going-on-and-on-about and the guy is eating his food, completely drowning out the sound of her voice, wishing he was somewhere else? Clearly, there is no intellectual compatibility happening here and I wonder if the beautiful girlfriend, sex and credit card bills are worth the sound of her voice and intellectual incapacity.

I had an experience last year with my own "blonde" scenario. He was brunette actually, from Brazil, a trainer and aspiring musician, who I will call Leonardo. Leonardo and his American friend, Mike, were standing behind me at a Cost Plus World Market, as I was pricing rugs. I happened to turn quickly and caught them looking at me. This doesn't usually happen, so I wasn't sure exactly what it was they were doing. But Leonardo copped to the fact that he had seen my red hair from across the parking lot and dragged his friend with him into the store to check me out closer. Most guys wouldn't give you this information because they would try to play it cool, which is why Mike said, "Dude, don't tell her that." I laughed. Clearly, Leonardo wore his heart on his sleeve and that was ok with me.

He was dark and handsome with a Brazilian accent and an awesome body. Mike did most of the talking, while Leonardo nodded and chimed in words here or there. Somehow we got on the discussion of kids and I said I did not have any kids, nor did I have plans to bring any more children into this world. Leonardo said, 'But if you got pregnant, then you would have a kid right?" My first thought was, at 44, it would be difficult for me to just 'get pregnant' without lots of doctors, test tubes and artificial insemination, and this is a road I have no desire to go down. When I'm 50, I want to be traveling around the world and be living a leisurely lifestyle, not driving my kid to soccer practice. My second thought was, this guy is already thinking about poking holes in the condom, and getting me pregnant-- and I don't even know his last name.

It had been quite some time since any stranger approached me and asked me out on a date. So I gave Leonardo my number, which he promptly punched into his cell phone. Mike told him to dial me and make sure I gave him my correct number. He didn't. He already knew I did and he was right. Leonardo was definitely more trusting and trustworthy than Mike.

We met for lunch a few days later and walked around the Grove in Los Angeles. We went into a Barnes & Noble and I followed Leonardo to the metaphysical section. He knew right where the "Birthday Book" was and took it off the shelf so we could read how our relationship might work out. We were no match made in heaven according to the book, but mostly because Leonardo had not remembered my birth date correctly. We made the adjustment and discovered we would still need to work really hard to make our relationship last. I thought it was funny but Leonardo took this information to heart.

We dated briefly and, honestly, there wasn't much talking happening. I had not been seeing anyone for quite some time so the sexual activity was welcome. The only problem was I couldn't have an intellectual conversation with Leonardo. He was quite knowledgeable of nutrition and training the physical body, but we couldn't connect much past those two topics, or him talking about wanting to get back into music business again. (Apparently Leonardo was in a famous 80s Brazilian band that had a hit song-- think Flock of Seagulls, but with dark hair). I found myself sitting across the table from him, drowning out his voice and wishing I was somewhere else.

One night he wanted me to try his favorite pizza from a Bossa Nova. We conversed on the phone for about 7 minutes discussing how he would pick up the pizza, and I would make the salad and buy a bottle of wine-- a conversation that should really only take about 30 seconds. We went back and forth, me always repeating the same end result-- he was getting the pizza and I was making salad and getting wine. He texted me at every turn: when he left his house, when he arrived at the restaurant, when he got the pizza and when he was on his way to my house. I precisely knew when to open the door (since he had just texted me that he was at the front door). He followed me into the kitchen and said in his heavy accent, "Oh Carolyn, why did you make a salad? Oh Carolyn, now we have so much food." This was typical. I would repeat things over and over and Leonardo would always react as if it was the first time he heard it. And, "No, really?!" was his constant refrain.

The more I sat across from him and listened to him drone on and on about food, working out or his music career going nowhere, the less interested I was in sleeping with him. Could I have a purely sexual relationship with someone who I didn't connect with on an intellectual level? I know people do it all the time. But I was starting to feel like the man in this relationship and that's not a role I wanted to fill. I'm very independent, but when it comes to relationships, I like to be the woman and I want the man to be the man. Leonardo was definitely sweet, a nice person and honest-- all good traits I admired in him. But I just couldn't continue. At this point in my life, I didn't want to be in a relationship that was only all about sex. I wanted someone who could go on mental and physical journeys with me. I stopped answering Leonardo's texts. "I pulled a dude," according to one of my male friends. Leonardo promptly de-friended me on Facebook and then sent an email a week later asking why I no longer wanted to see him. It was a fair question, so I replied to him that even though we communicated very well on a physical level, we were not compatible intellectually and that I was interested in pursuing a long-term relationship.

Two months later I ran into Leonardo at Chipotle at the Grove. We chatted a bit and as I was getting into my car, Leonardo asked if I would be interested in seeing him again. "A friend with benefits?" he asked. I repeated again that I was looking for a long-term relationship. "No, really?" he asked, "I thought you didn't want a long-term relationship". "Exactly," I said, as I got into my car and drove off.

My First Boyfriend Found Me on Facebook and Wants to Come To L.A. For A Visit

We dated 25 years ago. Brian was 28, divorced, Jewish and an attorney. I was 19 and I had just finished my freshman year at college. At that time, most mothers would have raised an eyebrow about the age difference between us. However, my mother, lamenting her own cash-poor, failed marriage, and who raised us saying, "you can marry the rich ones just as easily as the poor ones" heard "Jewish" and "attorney" and prayed that I would live a better life than she did. The fact that Brian was divorced didn't bother her either. "That just means he's already gotten the bad marriage out of the way," she noted.

I liked Brian and I liked having an older boyfriend. We went to dinner parties, ate at nice restaurants, read books and went to museum exhibits. He was smart, successful and quirky. And, if I remember correctly, we had been dating for about 6 months when Brian bought a condo, which I helped him scrub clean and then I never heard from him again. I asked one of Brian's friends what happened and he told me that Brian wanted to marry an attorney so he was hanging out at the local university law libraries. I was devastated. I didn't eat for 2 weeks and worked out every day. (My mother told me I looked great and whatever diet I was on, was working.) This was my first official dumping and it happened the day after I cleaned his toilet.

I wasn't surprised when I received an email from Brian a few months ago. Since the internet has made it so easy to find people, I occasionally receive emails from men from my past who are recently divorced or are going through a mid-life crisis. Brian lives in St. Louis, is divorced a second time, has two adorable kids and hasn't been on a date in more than a year. I pulled up his page on Facebook. He only had one photo posted, wearing sunglasses and a hat, but he still looked cute.

"I remember the first time I saw you," he wrote me, "looking very conservative, sitting in the afternoon sun, your legs crossed, your head tilted to one side to avoid the sun. Then, the next time I saw you was at a Mexican restaurant at 2 in the morning and you had on leopard high heels and a short black skirt." I remembered that night. My childhood friend, Diane Dazey, and I had gone to a Rod Stewart concert and stopped on the way home to get food. "So why did you stop calling?" I asked him. "I don't really remember," he said. "Maybe it was because I knew you wanted to leave St. Louis and I knew I would stay, and I really wanted to start a family". He hadn't remembered dumping me, yet he had a really romantic view of our failed relationship. "You were the gold standard for every other girl I met," he said. "You were supportive and really easy to talk to. I didn't have to explain things to you, and you had a great sense of humor. I compared every girl I ever dated to you." And he dumped me because...?

I'm glad Brian remembered me the way he did because I was an internal mess at 19. I grew up in a very sarcastic family, with a disconnected mother and an unsupportive father. "Too bad our dads didn't raise us like Gwyneth Paltrow's did," said a mutually dysfunctional friend. I was incredibly shy (anyone who knows me now doesn't believe me, but I was) and I had low self-esteem, which I hid well by keeping my mouth shut in public. Born with frizzy, red hair in humid St. Louis during the mid-60s wasn't a confidence booster either. But at 19, I was finally coming into my own. My hair was longer, my job afforded me some decent clothes and I'd finally lost my virginity. Oh, and he was right, I couldn't wait to get out of St. Louis. I had wanted to move to New York since I was 5.

How did I remember Brian? He was a germaphobe. When we went to the movies, he would place a paper towel on the seat. He would never touch anything in a public restroom, and would use the towel he dried his hands with, to open the door, and then throw the towel on the floor, not having to touch anything. He got angry with me once for getting a speck of chocolate from my Snicker's bar on the upholstery of his new Honda Accord. Each time we slept together, he took a shower right after. These were the thoughts dancing in my head as Brian

told me how he had been thinking about me for the past 25 years. Admittedly, my memories were a lot less rosy since I was the dumpee, and I hadn't thought about Brian in a long time. But 25 years later, we were laughing on the phone and realized we had many similar tastes. I talked with Brian for hours for three weeks before we settled on a date for him to come.

I was looking forward to his visit to Los Angeles. When I first saw him standing curbside at LAX, I noticed he was shorter than I remembered. He was wearing plaid Converse sneakers, True Religion jeans, a striped scarf, and a black corduroy jacket with something black embroidered on the back of it. At 53, he was quite metrosexual and trendy, even for L.A. After checking in at his hotel, we got a bite to eat and a cocktail. Later, we had more cocktails with my good friend Julie, and eventually ended up at her house with her husband and son. They loved Brian. He's successful, creative, smart and nice. If they had their wish, Brian would have proposed to me over the weekend. We went to the beach, drove to Montecito and Santa Barbara, ate out quite a bit and just talked, watched movies and hung out. Brian was very easy to get along with and actually, quite passive. 25 years had gone by, but it seemed like yesterday. Brian returned to St. Louis that Monday and we've been talking, emailing and texting ever since. After Christmas, he sent me one of his paintings, which I really like and hung above my dresser. I suspect we will see each other again. Until then...