n our last installment, our columnist — a Midwestern single mom — had been in touch with a hot new prospect online… and is waiting to hear back from him about setting up their first date.

Wednesday, midnight
Still nothing from Chris. That’s understandable, though. It’s late, and he could be asleep by now. I’m going to keep my

	Surely he must know that I’m waiting for a response from him…

promise to my therapist and resist the urge to go negative with this. Instead of thinking, “He hates me already,” I purposefully tell myself: “Everything is fine.” After a few repetitions of my new mantra, I start to actually believe it. Ready to go to sleep.

Thursday, 8 a.m.
I’m at work with a stack of projects I’ve got to plow through by the end of the day, but I can’t resist the urge to check my email in search of a response from Chris. I’m logging on and I can feel my heart beating a little faster.

Opening my inbox… NOTHING.

I don’t get it. Surely he must know that I’m waiting for a response from him. Why wouldn’t he write back? Is he playing games with me? Is he being coy—or cruel? Or maybe, I tell myself, he has other things he needs to do this morning, just like you do. I stare at the stack of must-do’s on my desk. Dates may come and go but I have only one job. I’d rather be single and employed than madly in love and out of work.

Of course that doesn’t stop me from checking my email ONE LAST TIME.

Still nothing.

Friday, 4 p.m.
My neighbor Helena has two tickets for the opera tomorrow night. The Marriage of Figaro. I’m not much of an opera fan, but I like the idea of cultivating a new friendship—especially with someone who seems to impervious to the siren call of dating and romance. Maybe some of her stoicism will rub off on me.

I want to accept her invitation, but I am stubbornly holding out for a call or email from Chris. Saturday night is date night, after all.

Friday, 5 p.m.
That’s it. Enough with being the passive lady-in-waiting. I’m going to call

Either way, tomorrow will tell me whether Chris is worth a second date.

Chris and invite him out. Why not? It’s 2008, for God’s sake. My own daughter knows it’s OK to make the first move. Why wouldn’t I?

It’s 5 p.m. I think I’ll wait about 45 minutes, give him enough time to get home from work. If I call now, he might be distracted with last-minute things to do before he can leave for the weekend.

Friday, 5:45 p.m.
With a knot in my stomach, I punch in Chris’s phone number. I’m aware of a creeping nausea now and sweaty palms. This is insane! Why am I so nervous? It’s just a phone call. This is ridiculous. But if I take a moment to think about it, honestly, I know exactly why I’m nervous. I am terrified of rejection. In my worst imaginings of how this conversation might go, Chris will tell me that he hasn’t responded because — on second thought — he has decided that I am too old/fat/ugly to date. Objectively speaking, I am none of those things. But the final years of my decaying marriage really rocked my self-esteem, and I’m still waiting for it to stabilize. Therapy, dating, stupid self-affirmations and the occasional encouraging word from winkers in the online dating world have done little to shore up my eroding self-confidence.

Or maybe it’s PMS.

Ring. Ring. Ring. “Hello?”

“Chris? It’s Sara.”

“Who?”

“Sara. You know. We’ve been talking online?” I don’t wait for him to answer. I just forge ahead with, “There’s a Renaissance exhibit at the art museum this weekend. I haven’t seen it. I wondered if you might be interested.”

“Ummm… OK. Sure.”

Not exactly the enthusiastic response I was hoping for. Now I wish I’d never called him in the first place. I don’t suppose it’s possible for me to claim I’ve reached a wrong number, though I’m thorough tempted to do so.

“So… great. I’ll email you the details and we can meet at the Art Museum? And maybe go for dinner after?”

“Ummm… OK. Sure.”

Blech. This is extraordinarily unpleasant. But I’m too far into it to gracefully extract myself. “So, um, how are you doing? Bet you’re glad it’s Friday.”

He responds with something vague and inconsequential, then I do the same and hang up. Maybe he’s in a bad mood. Or maybe he’s the one with PMS. Either way, tomorrow will tell me whether Chris is worth a second date.

My instincts say no, but I’m open to being proven wrong.

Sara Susannah Katz is a writer in the Midwest.

Read Single In The Suburbs, Part 57