“Have you read this book yet?” I asked the clerk behind the counter at the used book store.  I held up “Around the World in 80 Dates.”  “No,” she said, “but it looks interesting.”  I thought so, and for three bucks it was mine.  It combined two interests of mine: travel and meeting men.  I’m great at the former, and not so great lately at the latter.

The author had decided her husband was no where to be found in England.  So she e-mailed all her friends around the world (she was a travel writer) and asked them to set her up on dates.  And off she went.  She met him on date #55.  Fifty-five?!  I have to date that many men?  I had a friend who said it was twenty-five.  “Twenty-five from right now, or can I go back and count all the ones I’ve dated up to this point?” I asked.  “Oh – you can definitely count all the ones you’ve had so far.”

So yesterday I finally started my list.  I’m at twenty-three.  Well, twenty-three that I can remember at least.  And by “remember” I don’t mean their names necessarily.  There was the guy who lived on a golf course whose mission was just to impress me with his money.  I can’t for the life of me remember his name.  Nor do I care.  There was the bad kisser guy.  I do remember his name, but he first popped into my head as “bad kisser guy” so that’s what I wrote.  There was the guy with a very Irish name – but I can’t remember what name that was.  Daniel?  Patrick? Michael? Flannery? O’Malley?  Some combination of something like that.

Twenty-three.  So that’s just two dates to go.  Or thirty-two, depending on if I believe my friend or the book.  Two seems much more optimistic.  I’ll start there, and if I don’t find him by date #25, I’ll plan for #55.