Think for a minute. If a stranger walked up to on the street and said, “Hey, you! Describe yourself!” what would you say?

Adjectives and nouns swirl in galactic formation, begging to partner with verbs that’ll promise some hot action. But are they talking about me? Or someone I’d like to be?

Recently, I had lunch with a good friend. She’d been out of circulation because of surgery and finally felt well enough to socialize. That, and she was cracking up, trapped in her house for what seemed like years. We had lots to catch up on. After discussing the latest in politics and other disturbing news, she asked me about Glamour Man. I told her he vanished into the nebulous ghost world of discarded attraction. It’s been weeks. Radio silence. Nada.

She smirked. “So why aren’t you doing the choosing? Certainly things are better when you’re in charge, aren’t they?”

“I did choose to go on a date with Glamour Man. Wasn’t I in charge then?” I asked.

“Not really,” she said. “He asked. You said yes. The man has no follow-up date scheduled. Just useless texts and a chatty phone call leading nowhere. You let him lead the whole thing.”

“Well, not really,” I said. “I only texted him a couple of times.”

“And if he wanted to see you again, he would. He’s seeing other people. Not that you didn’t make the cut. He’s checking out his options. Face it, women are impressed with Glamour Man. That’s how he gets his way. It doesn’t matter that you were friends first. Maybe he felt secure in trying you out for size since he knew you. He could ask to take you out again. But would you really want to go?”

Of course, she was right. I thought about this. What would I say if he did? A conundrum, if ever there were. Admittedly, I like the idea of him. But do I like him? Or is it because I have nothing else to compare him to? Is some attention better than no attention?

Later, at home, I opened my laptop and composed my first blog in over a year. Then I set out to write my dating profile. Stared at the mirror to examine any positive qualities that face and post-menopausal body possessed. Flipped through the selfies and other images on my phone to see if they in any way resembled what the mirror reflected. Well, if Glamour Man liked what he saw, others will too.

It’s equal measures weird and satisfying to write a classified to sell yourself to a bunch of strangers. Because that’s what dating profiles are: you’re on the market, looking for a partner. Yin Seeks Yang. Pot Searches For Lid. Cup Needs Saucer. Missing Sock Hopes To Find Mate.

But oh, the words. Where are they? Have they gone missing from my imagination? Stop. Start. Stop. Start. A great beginning of a sentence dangled, desperate for an end. Conjured a quirky phrase or two, just to show how clever I am, only to toss it aside because I perceived it to be idiotic. Should I pay attention to grammar? Make myself cutesy? Say I like to walk on the beach during sunsets? What? Oh, I’m so bad at this…

My sister suggested a couple of obvious things: be honest, and say what you want in a potential partner. That way, you’ll attract the attention of someone looking for those things too.

One deep breath later, I pulled up to a blank screen and threw on it all the fun activities I enjoy, serious interests that capture me, passing fancies for personal indulgement, the wide variety of music passing through my wireless speaker and ear buds, and that I’m an arts and culture kind of woman. Added a paragraph about the sort of man I’m looking for (a rewording of a description of me, only shorter).

Visited my phone photo library once more. I did have a collection of halfway decent images that offered a flattering view. Chose about a dozen, mostly color, a artsy few black and whites. Read through the profile about a million times, adding a comma here, deleting an adverb there. Perfect.

Now all I need is the courage to upload that profile to my preferred dating sites. I swear to you I’m going to do it. Pinky swear!

Wait until I tell you what came next.