Date n. 1 the time at which a thing happens or is done … vt. 6 to have a social engagement or engagements with.

Dateless adj. 1 without a date …

4 still good or interesting though old.

This is a love column; this is my dating story. It is not Sex in the City, because in order to be called so, I'd have to be having sex and what sometimes precedes sex is a date, only sometimes, though. So, that's my goal. A date. This is also not Sex in the City because Carrie Bradshaw has a bod and a closet and can run in heels. We both have curly hair though. And, whereas I ride a bike around St. Paul, she gets chauffeured by taxis in New York City. That's ok, though. I don't particularly fancy Sarah Jessica Parker, though I do sometimes aspire to be Kim Catrell. (Note to the reader: I do not watch Sex in the City on a regular basis. I just happened to catch a few reruns this past spring)

My first column is about rejection. I had a mission last Saturday night—to get a date to write about. And my mission failed; on Saturday night, I was rejected. It was like something you've seen in an '80s movie, and I was Molly Ringwald (think Sixteen Candles). There was a soccer game and the boy I wanted a date with was watching it. There I was, hiding inside the stadium with two of my friends. We knew the boy was there, somewhere, and it was my goal to ask him on a date.

"Ok, I see him," Hazel said (that's not her real name).

"Where?" I asked and scanned the dozens seated in the bleachers. "Oh…" I had spotted him.

"Ok, go ask him," J. Lo urged me on (Again, the name here is changed to protect the identity of my friend.)

"Oh….. I can't," I whined. ("Oh shit Oh shit Oh shit," I thought to myself.) "Oh god…I don't want to," I told them. (Picture Molly Ringwald at the dance: She's pacing back and forth in the hallway of the high school and in the locker room, practicing what she'll say to Jake, the big stud she's got a crush on)

So, there I am, pacing for a couple of minutes. And then, I take the plunge, up the stadium steps and over to his row. I know that I either look pale and frightened, or blushed and crazed. He's sitting with a male friend of his, and I address them both:

"Hi, do any of you need a date tonight?" (Way to go, Lucy. Could we be more vague?) Next time, I'll say something more along the lines of:

"Hi (so-and-so). Would you like to have a drink with me tonight at the Tap?" Could anyone refuse that? Well, of course, but I'm not planning on another rejection.

You might be wondering what the response was. One of them said, "That's an interesting proposition." And then, silence. I sat there for while, wondering if I was going to get any kind of concrete response. More silence. I then quietly removed myself from the stadium. On my way home, I stopped by a little "tailgating" party that some sophomores were having on the field. I was offered a drink, and I graciously took my rum and coke, first spilling it on my sexy shirt and trousers. I, then, introduced myself to Chris and he asked if I wanted a hotdog. (They were grilling.) I politely declined and he said, "Oh, I should probably tell you that I'm gay." (Cool. I am so cool.) We talked about how 50% of the gay men at Mac don't date and he mentioned that he needed a date as well. So, I will mention that Chris McNearney is gay and needs a date. He wanted me to write that. (Go look him up in the spotlight, guys).

I thought it was time to leave, so I took my drink and rode my bicycle home, alone.

I should mention that I, too, rejected someone in my vanity over the weekend. I asked my girlfriends to find me a date, and they rattled off a list of potential blokes. In my pickiness, I rejected all of the candidates.

I should also let the reader know that the story of my love life is a sad one. It all started with a summer romance in 2000 which left me broken hearted. After two years of sporadic periods of missing him (or the idea of him) and forgetting about him, I started seeing someone else.

He was a tall, gangly bloke in Scotland, where I was studying abroad. I realized a week into this new romance that he didn't really do it for me (he didn't do a lot of things for me). It was a blessing that I was headed back to the states the next week. I pushed on and kept seeing him, because he was getting attached, and I couldn't care either way. It was a two week semi-fling and then it was over. I wished that I had pulled (hooked up with) a sexier Brit who might have had the same one-track mind as I. But, alas, it was the nice boy I found instead.

This brings me to the present. There was no summer romance for me this year, as I was working on a ranch in rural Wyoming, where the only possibilities were the 46-year-old engaged Swedish wrangler, the 17-year-old cabin girl (also my good friend), and the two married owners of the ranch, aged 47 and 62. (Note: I am not prejudiced towards the older generations. I just think it is appropriate to draw the line somewhere, perhaps 30? There is a strange phenomenon of 50-60 year old men with 20-year-old girlfriends, which does not appeal to me or turn me on in the least.) So, I am single again, and very desperate.

I'm making a list for myself. They are my dating goals. I want to cover all bases, so this is my list thus far:

1. Answer a personal add in the newspaper.

2. Go cruisin' with my girls and pick someone up.

3. Meet a bloke in a bar.

4. Date someone at Mac. (Yikes)

5. Get set up with as many people as possible (Several people have come up to me and told me that they're going to set me up with some friend, brother, or son of theirs. I must seem desperate.)

6. Ask out the guy I've been crushing on since 7th grade, who is completely unattainable, which makes me want him that much more.