My favorite part of being single is walking into a coffee shop, putting my hands on my hips like a superhero, and scanning the room for my next great love. Maybe he's on the couch in faded Levi's with a hint of a cappuccino mustache. Or maybe he's behind the counter, pondering whether he should pierce his last spare bit of cartilage or if sixteen metal studs are plenty.

Wandering toward the dry cleaners to pick up a silk dress suffering from an inopportune introduction to a glass of red wine, I'll pass random strangers -- maybe someone with a rangy build and glasses -- and wonder, "Is that him?" Pause for a brief daydream about our first date while staring at the sidewalk, until I see a new pair of feet approaching and think, "Maybe this is him!"

My eyes trail up the approaching legs to see a waddling frog impersonator in a sweat-stained T-shirt shrieking obscenities into his Bluetooth. The vision forces me to spend the next twenty steps praying I haven't set off any unfortunate dating juju.

Click here to read about the reality of Amber's first dates since the breakup.



Two weeks after my ex and I split up, some friends invited me over for dinner. Like us, they'd been planning to try for a sproglet. Less like us, they'd conceived one and were busy gestating and assembling changing tables from superstores.

Leah was sitting near the oven, tasked with watching the potatoes. She reminded me about one glorious part of being unattached. "When I was single, I'd walk down the street and think, 'Will he be my next boyfriend? How about him?'" I remembered this small joy. The slightest hint of hope ballooned in my chest before withering like the basil plant in my kitchen window.

Months later, this feeling is back -- lighter, less like a looming failure and more like an adventure. Time tempers any lingering guilt over checking out other people -- some vestige of commitment clings but fades further as each calendar page lifts.

Now I like to ponder what my future mate might be doing as I sit in my leather chair at the coffee shop, reading a novel and trying not to knock over my latte with a careless elbow.

He's doing something this very minute, living his life as I'm living mine. I haven't met him yet, don't know his name or what his eyebrows look like when he laughs, but he's out there right now. In spite of its Captain Obvious qualities, this never fails to amaze me -- and remind me that people don't spring into being the moment they enter my life, a concept which I'll admit is still a bit fuzzy.

I can't wait to meet him. Even as I realize that what he's probably doing at this very moment is loading the dishwasher wrong.