Prior to my divorce, I hadn’t asked anyone out since 1976 when I asked Richie Brooks to be my date for the senior prom. In other words, it had been awhile.

Being thrown back into the dating pool, I had to sink or swim. I learned a lot in a hurry.

For instance, which is better? Dinner or drinks?

In the beginning, I had dinner with my first dates. Bad choice. Too much time and too much money and too many calories. Drinks are better and more affordable and it’s easier to split the tab. I preferred to pay my own way, but - I didn’t argue if he insisted on paying.

Secondly, how do you talk to a guy you just met?  It’s easy. Treat him as you’d want to be treated, and don’t ramble on about your ex, your health problems, your flaky skin, your weight or your diet.

Ask questions. Remember, she who asks the questions controls the conversation. Learn about him and his interests, because your goal is to figure out if he’s worthy of a second date.

Next, there’s the good night kiss. Many men will move in for the good-night kiss at the end of the first date. If you’re already feeling like there’s not going to be a second date, avoid the kiss. It just muddies the waters.

When a not-so-great first date was drawing to a close, my preference was to step back and extend my hand for a warm and meaningful handshake. Then I’d say, “Thank you so much for a delightful evening” and walk away quickly. This simple action spared me many awkward “what do we do now” moments.

If he asks for a second date, be honest and straight-forward. If you don’t want a second date, have a ready-made phrase ready for moments such as this. Mine was, “I had a lovely time but I don’t feel like we’re a good match.”

Don’t get mired in an argument over this. If he wants to argue the point, just say, “I’m sorry, but I’m not going to change my mind on this,” and walk away.

If you do want a second date, be clear and forthright. Above all, ignore those so-called “Rules” that tell women to play games in order to snare a man.

Be authentic and be real. Don’t play a part.

In short, treat Mr. First Date the way you’d want to be treated, with honesty and grace and sensitivity and forthrightness and good manners.

Next:  Red Flags to Watch Out For!

Buy Rose’s book here.

In my wildest dreams, I never imagined that my life would end like this.

It was my own fault. How could I have been so stupid? I’d agreed to take a sailboat ride on the Mississippi River with some guy I’d just met online. When Date #33 first suggested this outing, the rule “always meet your date in a public place” popped into my mind, but I couldn’t imagine that a 65-year-old semi-retired hand surgeon would go to all this trouble, just so he could chop an unsuspecting writer into 328 little bite-sized pieces and feed her to the three-eyed, mutant fishies in the Mississippi.

We had connected through a Christian dating site. And up until now, our first date had been progressing beautifully. Bobbing about in a beautiful boat on the busy river, we talked freely and laughed easily as we watched the river traffic move to and fro.

And then my 33rd date asked if I was hungry.

“I could eat something,” I replied. Which, as most women know, really means “I’m about to faint from hunger because I haven’t eaten anything more than a package of sugar-free gum in the last three days. Bring me food and bring it fast and don’t skimp on the mayonnaise.”

He hastily disappeared below deck.

When he returned, he had a cooler in one hand and a fishing knife in the other. The kind with serrated edges. The kind that’s used to field dress deer and can easily and quickly remove all their internal organs with a simple flick of the wrist. The kind of knife that can slice and dice 45-year-old female writers, who are foolish enough to board a pretty sailboat and drift out to the wide-open sea with a total stranger who probably stole someone’s identity and/or their pretty sailboat.

We made eye contact as he ascended the stairs. A sinister sneer crept across his face. The connection between my retina and brain was momentarily lost as a massive fog of fear moved in and scrambled the signals. All I could see was a newspaper headline: Local Author Found Floating Face Down in Mississippi River; Serrated Knife was Murder Weapon.

Then I started thinking about that headline. Would it really say, “Serrated Knife” or would the editor go with just “Knife” or maybe, “Hunting Knife”? And I resented the “Local Author” part, too. I’d gained some national recognition and had been featured in the national media repeatedly. I was a National Author now. Maybe it implied that I was a national author that lived locally. I sincerely hoped that the distinction would be clarified in the first paragraph. What a nuisance that’d be to get all that straightened out after the fact, especially if the article didn’t include a proper bio. Especially if the national author was floating face down in the local river.

Number 33 paused at the top of the stairs. Time for me to make a decision. Was he a knife-wielding whack job or just another eccentric surgeon? The decision was unanimous. All my personalities voted together on this one. He’s a lunatic. How could I have not noticed those dark beady eyes? And his hands? Oh dear heaven, why hadn’t I taken the time to be more observant? He had five fat little sausages stuck on the end of his two formless mitts, parading as human hands. All surgeons have beautiful hands with long, sinewy fingers. And his clothes. Why hadn’t I paid better attention to his clothes? He didn’t dress like a doctor. He was wearing a ragged t-shirt, khaki shorts with a failing hem and worn-out boat shoes. Do most physicians shop at Goodwill so they can look like homeless bums? I think not.

He came closer and I glanced over the edge of the boat to see how much effort would be required to flop like a fish off the deck. The only reason I didn’t jump was my eyeglasses. Three days prior, I’d picked up my new $400 eyeglasses with designer frames and lightweight polycarbonate lenses. If I jumped, I’d lose my eyeglasses. It’s tough to make a dramatic getaway while pawing through the water and trying to save your sinkable specs.

Life.

Eyeglasses.

Life.

Eyeglasses.

Tough call.

Before I could decide, he clinched his jaw and raised the knife high above his head and stabbed a perfectly innocent chunk of Havarti Dill. The cheese took one for the team.

I breathed a sigh of relief. When he opened the cooler, he produced chilled grapes and ice-cold water. I was surprised at how hungry I was, so soon after seeing all 45 years of my life flash before my eyes.

Next:  The culture of loneliness and the “Happy” Holidays.

If you’re enjoying this blog, please email this link to your friends.

Like this snippet? Read the rest here!