This guy, however, was being coy. "I've gotten so much publicity over the years," he sighed, "and it's all been, well, so trite. Why don't you send me some samples of your work, and I'll decide if I want to do a story." His arrogance was irritating, but I was intrigued enough by the challenge to send him some clips before I went on vacation. Sometimes, in the midst of mountain vistas and fast food, I wondered how this little game would play out. I was beginning to suspect this encounter might be nettlesome because I had recently decided to give up men.

In one of those pensive moments of taking stock I had finally admitted to myself that I was cresting life's hill and that things would roll a lot faster down the far slope. I wanted to stop wasting time fretting over sags and wrinkles; mourning the beautiful, accomplished woman I had just missed becoming a few years earlier.

Somehow, these worries were childishly intertwined with being considered attractive to men. If I gave up men, I thought, the petty distractions would trot out the door like little puppies at their owner's heels. Then, I could grow old graciously and in peace.

It wasn't a major renunciation. I was giving up men in general, since I already have a particular man. I was giving up the pursuit, the game, the fantasy, the flirtation. I was giving up the instinctive chatter between the sexes; the white noise that began sometime in adolescence and has been humming away ever since. I was renouncing the ritual dance we perform by habit long after our mates are chosen, our children grown and our evolutionary mandate is fulfilled -- long after time and gravity have done their dirty work. Doesn't everyone scan a room for an interesting face and tingle from a glance of frank admiration? And who doesn't feel a pang of despair or maybe jealousy when another woman is undeniably more attractive?

No matter how mature we become, how complacent and orderly our lives, some orphaned Cinderella in our souls still hopes that we may someday stumble over true effortless love, not the kind we work so hard to sustain. That some prince -- and by now he will have those endearing little wrinkles about the eyes -- may touch us in places spiritual and otherwise where we have never been touched before. We all know our particular prince began leaving his socks on the floor the morning after we pledged our troth. But somewhere, over the rainbow or in Madison County, there may be someone who will look at us with smoldering desire, who will care enough to fill the longing in our souls (and maybe pick up his socks). It's this fairy tale that keeps the pages of romance novels churning under the book lights late at night.

Not for me. My cards are off the table. The time is right -- half the men in the world are too young, and the other half are sucking up to the hopeful fountain of the over 30s. So, I tried to stop those furtive glances to see if the attractive guy was glancing back. I tried not to care if he wasn't. I tried to accept the fact that I am charging into middle age and to look forward with enthusiasm rather than back with regret.

It was kind of a relief, really. I had less self-esteem on the line; less energy invested in chasing down a bus that had already passed my stop. I didn't have to re-inflate my ego when he didn't glance back or when someone beautiful and accomplished inhaled all the admiration in the room (OK, that still pricked a little). The clock had struck midnight, and I was leaving the dance floor, frayed, but with what I hoped was dignity.

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