And then I talk to a Super Hot Guy. I’m not talking about a cute guy or even a handsome guy. I’m talking about the kind of guy who could be commanding $15 million a picture and posing for the cover of GQ – shirtless and without the aid of airbrushing.

Standing in for Super Hot Guys everywhere

Only he’s not on the movie screen – he’s right in front of me, looking me in the eye, smiling and pretending to be interested in what I’m saying.

I say “pretending” because, honestly, what are the chances he could ever be interested in anything about me?

That’s pretty much the line of thought my addled brain took when I met Super Hot Guy this week. He walked up, started a conversation and I was so bedazzled by him that I could barely keep up. I didn’t know what to do with my hands and arms. I could feel nervous sweat creeping down my back. I stuttered. And the whole time, when I should have been concentrating on what he was saying, all I could think is, “Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, he’s beautiful. And he’s looking at me. Squeal!”

I was so distracted I almost missed that he was flirting with me. And I could barely, lamely flirt back.

Why, why, why is this still happening? Why am I not the same confident woman in the presence of this man-god? How on earth am I supposed to date a man-god like him (every woman’s dream, surely?) if I can’t keep myself from giggling each time he smiles at me?

I’d feel worse if I didn’t know this was a common affliction. My friend Beth – one of the most confident and witty women I know — once had a chance to meet one of the ambassadors for Super Hot Guys, Gavin Rossdale. Face-to-face. She even got to touch him (OK, shake his hand).

And, like me, she turned to Jell-O. She smiled. She giggled. And she lost all control of her verbal faculties. Retelling the story, she said it was like her brain stopped functioning because it was blinded by Gavin’s beauty.

“I was like, ‘You like stuff? I like stuff!’” she recounted.

Oh God. Here’s hoping that next time I can come up with better than “I like stuff.” I fear that’s asking for too much.

In her column, Laura Munson says that her husband, in the throes of a midlife crisis, asked her for a divorce. She said she knew he really didn’t want one. But instead of counseling and talking, she hung back. She gave him space. He roamed. And then he came back.

Munson is careful to say this approach might not work for everyone, but it did work for her. What do you think? Should more couples on the verge of fracture try this laid back approach?

My family was generous enough to help me move and as I watched them pull away, I had tears in my eyes. I always cry when I say goodbye to people I love but this time it was more than those pangs of separation sadness. I was sad about being alone. Yet again.

I’d spent the last couple weeks at my parents’ house where I got used to always having people around. Before that I was surrounded by friends and never had to be alone unless I wanted to. And now I was really alone.

I hate being really alone.

The last time I did this was when I graduated from college and moved out of state to start a new job. I knew no one in my new town but instead of feeling lonely I was excited. I had low moments, sure, but this was a big adventure. This was what I was supposed to be doing now – striking out on my own, ready to test myself against the world and make my dreams come true. Having a boyfriend in the wings would have been like cheating.

But now, five years later, I’m starting grad school and it doesn’t feel like a free-wheeling adventure anymore. I wonder if there’s something wrong with me that I haven’t put down more roots by this point in my life. I didn’t have a house to sell, a boyfriend/fiancé/husband to bring along or even a dog/cat/fish to consider.

It was relatively easy to pick up my life and change it. Which was good and bad. What does it say about the last five years that all I have to show for it is a sleeper couch, a laptop and two bedroom sets? Sure, I have friends and work experiences and life experiences that I carry with me. But when you get down to it, I haven’t tied my life to anything significant. I used to think that was a benefit. But, as I fall asleep in my too-quiet apartment, I have to wonder if it is.

I realize my last post was full of piss and vinegar and pride for the fact that I hadn’t compromised my life for a less-than-ideal man. What can I say? I’m still glad I’m not chained to an anchor. But it’s much easier to feel strong when you aren’t staring “alone” in the face.

I had two such moments in the last two days. Combined they make me so happy with my single life that I’m not at all distraught by the fact that there is no warm, manly body in my bed right now. Hell, I’m so tickled that I enjoy sprawling out across the cool sheets and not making room for anyone else.

Happy to be single!

My joyful mood is brought to you by two girls I went to high school with.

The first I spotted today in a local grocery store. Let me preface this story by saying I’m not proud of the happiness it brought me. But I did get a lift out of it, as evil as it sounds.

OK, here goes.

 I knew this girl had given birth to her first child recently but seeing her was a shock. She was huge, especially when compared in my mind’s eye to the skinny, shapely, blonde cheerleader I remembered. She was easily 60 pounds overweight – butt fat, thigh fat, tummy fat, arm fat, back fat. It was startling.

I felt smug. Not just a little smug, either.

Yes, she was married with a baby. And I know it must be so hard to lose the pregnancy weight. But I was skinny. And cute. The clerks at the grocery store were flirting with me and I looked hot in my jeans. I felt awfully good about being single and baby-free.

The second instance was less evil. I had lunch with a friend of mine who got married right after college. She’s still charting her career while her husband has settled in with a corporation and a track. She’s the kind of adventurous girl who I could see living abroad and pursuing her passion to help people all over the world. We were talking about our recent trips to different corners of the globe. We had an exciting, inspiring conversation.

Carried away, I asked, “Have you ever thought about working abroad?”

Her face fell, just a little. She said she’d love to, but her husband liked being close to home. She didn’t sound resentful or too disappointed. It was a fact, something she’d ingested and accepted and that didn’t cause her to lose any sleep at night. That life path was likely cut off and that was OK with her.

I didn’t pity her. But I did thank God I’m not married right now. Why? Because unlike my friend, I haven’t found a man worth compromising for. Yet. If I were in her position now, I’d be deeply resentful. By comparison my life feels free and open. It reminded me that the pursuit of coupledom is not the be-all, end-all. It’s just one possible happy ending.

No, I’m not talking about those bearded guys who impersonate Papa on Duval Street in Key West and let tourists buy them beer. Those guys I have no beef with.

Beware: Fake Hemingways don't always sport a white beard.

My fake Hemingways are harder to spot.

These are men who want to model their lives after the patterns of men like Hemingway, Jack Kerouac, Hunter S. Thompson and the like. They see themselves as romantic figures, destined to travel the world alone having exciting adventures and escaping the mind-numbing traps of the bourgeois life. And there’s usually plenty of sex, drugs and alcohol to fuel things along.

(Side note: I often hear people talk about how drugs/alcohol fueled these guys’ creativity. But I wonder how much more great literature they could have written if they hadn’t had drug/alcohol problems. Ex: John Updike.)

But unlike Hemingway and his ilk, these guys aren’t living the bohemian lifestyle. They’re as weighed down as the tray of an obese person at an all-you-can-eat buffet. They have 40-hour work weeks, 401-ks, health insurance, car payments and steady girlfriends.

Yep, you guessed it. ‘Steady girlfriends’ is where my frustration begins.

Take my friend Marissa who’s been dating her own fake Hemingway for three years. She didn’t realize she had a Hemingway at first. They both loved to travel. They both had steady jobs. They both liked going out, partying with friends and spending time with their families. She thought she’d found the ideal match.

Then 18 months in, Marissa found out he never wanted to get married or have children because those things would tie him down. They would keep him from living a fulfilling life in which he could wander the world, experience things and not be responsible or beholden to anyone.

The problem? Even when he was single he didn’t live that lifestyle. His life – with or without Marissa – changed little. So is the wanderlust just a front to keep marriage at bay? Or do these men have a genuine disconnect between what they say they want and what they actually do?

I’ve meant a few genuine Hemingways, and I have no problem with them. There’s the Aussie I met in Vienna who’d been traveling for five years straight and was planning to go home “soon” – i.e. after a year-long trip through Africa. Or the boat captain/guitarist with a Jimmy Buffet face who’s never with the same woman twice. 

You don’t seriously date those men if you want a commitment. You know better. Their lives are truth in advertising and I always appreciate honesty.

But there’s something sneaky about the fake Hemingways. Either they’re not living up to their potential or they’re hiding behind a romantic ideal that they don’t have the courage to live out. Unfortunately it’s the women who fall in love with them that often end up getting hurt.

Don’t worry, I’m not just picking on the guys. Coming soon: a discussion about the woman who wants it all — the fancy house, the big salary, the ideal family — but only if her hubby is paying.

Nice guys have always been like catnip for me. I love nice guys. If a guy doesn’t adore me, treat me well, treat others well and have a good heart, I’m not usually attracted to him. Nice, for me, is never boring.

But as the other girls shared their stories, I started to see a pattern. Madelyn was like me, never interested in anything but nice guys. Sara thinks nice guys are boring.

And Jenny, who’s about to get married to a genuinely nice guy, said she had a bad boy habit. After a string of assholes — ending with a lousy Israeli guy who smashed her heart so she smashed his prized didgeridoo — she made a pledge. She would fall in love with a nice guy, if it killed her.

I began to wonder if bad boys were a phase, part of the maturing process that women go through. Some women, like Madelyn and me, are always attracted to nice guys. Maybe because we don’t see the sense in bad boys or maybe because we saw how bad boys treated our mothers, aunts or older sisters and realized the excitement isn’t worth the pain.

And then there are women like Sara and Jenny who go through a bad boy phase and eventually realize the value of the nice guy. They mature in their relationships and discover that nice isn’t boring. It’s just nice. And it’s always nice to be treated nice.

What do you think? Are bad boys just a phase, like wearing blue eyeshadow and dancing the Macarena? If so, what was your bad boy moment of clarity?

While I know that most men (especially those nearing or over 50) think it’s badass that Billy married a woman 33 years his junior (and just four years older than his daughter), I’m not impressed.

Billy Joel and Katie Lee in happier times.

I think their marriage was a recipe for divorce.

Katie is young, hot and, thanks to Billy’s celeb status, she’s running with some pretty powerful and fabulous people. It’s hard for the blue-collar Piano Man to compete with young, stylish studs like Yigal Azrouel, the fashion designer that a number of sources have Katie canoodling with.

It happens that way in the ‘real’ world too. Older man marries younger woman hoping for exciting sex life/renewed youthful vigor/jealous stares from other old guys and then finds out that she was only sticking around for his money/stature/private jet.

Some people might argue that age is just a number and these failed relationships fail because the couple isn’t compatible in a dozen other ways — that have nothing to do with age.

But surely age has a lot to do with common marital conflicts — like when and whether to have children, why your old, tired spouse doesn’t like to go out any more and what’s going to happen when you turn from hot wife to nursemaid.

So what’s the rule of thumb when marrying much younger (or much older, as the case may be)?

My mom heard some radio DJs who claim the rule is this: the youngest you can go is half your age plus seven. Billy should have stuck with 37-year-olds apparently.

And maybe for marrying older you could reverse the formula: double your age minus seven. That puts my old-guy ceiling at 45.

The problem is we all know those couples who seem to defy the rules. Woody and Soon-Yi (ew). Ashton Kutcher and Demi Moore. Catherine Zeta-Jones and Michael Douglas.

There are non-celeb examples too. Take my friend who just married a woman who’s closer in age to his teenage daughter than to him. He isn’t rich or particularly powerful, so I have to believe she’s in it for love. And it helps that she doesn’t want kids, just the pleasure of his company for as long as they both shall live.

I asked my friend once how they handled the age difference. He said she was so much more mature than him that the age didn’t matter. And it helped that his daughter adored her.

Not that daughters are a good indicator. Billy Joel’s daughter Alexis apparently liked Katie enough to be her maid of honor.

I know, I know. We like to think all of our relationships start innocently with visions of songbirds and fairy dust and happily ever after in our heads. Our only motivation is to find true love and bond for life.

Yeah, right.

Relationships often start for the worst reasons possible, which made me wonder: do bad motives at the start of a relationship ultimately lead to a horrible ending?

What kind of bad reasons do I mean? How about the guy you date because you don’t want to be alone any more? Or the girl you pursue because you’ve never had sex with a girl with green eyes? Or the person you start dating because you’re the only two single people left in your circle?

My own worst motives led to a two-year relationship. I remember that when New Guy started pursuing me, I didn’t want to date him. I didn’t find him attractive and he reminded me too much of a recent ex who, while a nice guy, had proved really incompatible with me.

But New Guy pursued me hard: mix CDs, several requests for dates, lots of email flirting. And my heart had just been broken by the man I still consider the best love of my life. I was vulnerable. Even though I didn’t really like New Guy all that much, I did like the attention and interest he was lavishing on me.

So I caved. I said yes to a date and we were together for two years.

The breakup, which I should have prompted sooner, was wretched. We tried to be friends but all the things that made us incompatible as a couple made us even worse friends. And every time I looked back bitterly at the time I wasted, I remembered the fact that I hadn’t even wanted to date him in the first place.

That fact burned me.

So, what’s the worst reason you ever started dating someone? And did it work out better than it did for me?

The cleanest break up I ever had was with a foreign boyfriend. I broke up on one of my visits to his country, flew home the next day and moved to a new city a few weeks later. There were only one or two uncomfortable phone calls (after all, it’s really hard to drunk dial someone in a foreign country when you’re on a budget). And that was it. I started my new life and he got on with his.

Jennifer Aniston and Vince Vaughn had to share a home after breaking up in 'The Break-Up.'

Distance, a huge obstacle for our relationship, was the best possible thing for our break up.

My friend doesn’t have the luxury of making her ex disappear nor does she want to. Their lives are intertwined. She’s friends with his family. They run with the same group of people. And, perhaps worst of all, they work together.

Clearly cutting him out is not an option.

But keeping him around has consequences too. There’s the risk that she’ll stay in love with him and suffer when she learns he’s with someone new. And what happens if she tries to be friends with him and jealousy pops up? Or, worst of all, what happens if you end up in the dreaded friends-with-benefits zone? That usually means that one person is imagining the two of you getting together again while the other is hanging around until something better comes along.

The potential for heartbreak makes my heart, well, ache. For both of them.

So, can you offer my friend some helpful advice? How do you effectively break up with someone when they’re still part of your life?

The weekend was her bachelorette party, a fun-filled Bahamas cruise of six other wonderful women. Throw in a few mojitos, some flashing leis and a lot of giggling and you had a wonderful time.

Wesley and Buttercup knew their love was meant to be.

And Paula just glowed. Not only because she was having a fabulous time with her girlfriends but because she was so certain her future life would be fabulous.

I watched her and wondered: how did she know? She and Paul, her fiance, met at a polo match when they happened to sit at the same table. Two dates later they were both smitten, and even though they lived on opposite ends of the east coast, they started a serious, exclusive relationship. After lots of plane rides and long weekends together, they got engaged. It was full steam ahead, even though he was his ex-wife’s three children (not biologically his) and his mom was a bit of a nutter and they were still both living in different cities. But none of that seemed to matter.

I was in awe of Paula’s conviction.

After we’d disembarked the ship, the two of us were fetching the car from the overpriced parking deck. Alone at last, I asked her: How did she know Paul was worth her time after two short dates? And how did she know he was the one?

“I just knew,” she said, the three most infuriating words a confused single person can hear. “With other men I would be happy and bubbley and say, ‘This is it!’ but there would always be this nagging doubt in the bottom of my stomach. I didn’t have that with Paul.”

She told me how both she and Paul were givers and how she knew she could rely on him to take care of her if she needed him to. She was done dating men who wanted mothers and Paul was definitely independent.

But the clincher was that absence of doubt. I’m envious of that. I want to feel so completely certain of someone that I, a worrier by nature, have no worries about him and how he will love me. It’s a little gross to think of it this way, but it’s the same kind of trust I have in my parents. I know they will always love me and always be there, without judgment or failure. But I feel that way because they have loved me in that pure way for 27 years. You can’t test a man like that.

It’s still nice to see the certainty up close, even though I worry I’ll end up like Louise Rafkin, who wrote this Modern Love column about being 50 years old and still not experiencing that. I don’t want to go through life with a pit always at the bottom of my stomach, a nagging worry that won’t let me go.