Help Wanted

I try on six different outfits, only to decide I hate them all. Tomorrow, I'm going to lose those five pounds, I vow. Then I down half a pint of Cherry Garcia frozen yogurt to soothe my nerves.

I arrive at Parallax at 7:25, finding no one matching Jon's online picture. I hadn't realized there were so many well-dressed single men in Cleveland. As each comes in, I glance up nervously. At 7:31, I start reliving all the horror stories my ever-supportive friends told me about meeting online crushes.

One was old. Another was fat. A third was married. And one -- gasp! -- even made them pay for dinner.

I suddenly panic. He's going to be ugly, isn't he? I can get around that, can't I? I convince myself that I'm not as shallow as I am.

At 7:33, Jon shows up, apologizing for being late. He looks just like his picture: handsome in a 1950s sort of way, with gelled black hair swept into a wave, twinkling hazel eyes, and puffy cheeks that he calls a family curse but that soften the angles of his face. He's also 6 foot 4. My head reaches his chest.

I start to worry about whether my insurance will cover neck strains. I decide to call HR tomorrow.

Jon smiles down at me.

"You know, you're much prettier than your picture," he says.

"Thanks," I say, already visualizing how I'm going to replace my current photo with a much cuter one.

There's a 40-minute wait for dinner, so we go to Lolita for pre-dinner drinks. "Do you know how to get there?" Jon asks.

I pull Mapquest directions from my suede Ralph Lauren factory-outlet purse. "Lolita is approximately 0.21 miles from Parallax," I say, then walk confidently in the wrong direction.

At 8 p.m., we walk to dinner and order sushi and wine.

Conversation flows easily. We discover that we're both Big Ten graduates, huge Steelers fans, and exercise fanatics. He forgives me for lying about my profile. He has excellent teeth.

Midway through dinner, something starts to buzz. It's my, um, head. I'm drunk.

Shit. Maybe he won't notice?

"Becky, are you OK?" Jon asks. "You look a little drunk."

"I'm fine," I lie, thinking about which one of my friends I'll call to pick me up this time. Jon drives me to Cleveland Heights, then turns around and drives 40 minutes to Medina.

The next day, he calls to thank me for the date and to tell me he looked up my articles online.

"Oh, which ones did you read?" I ask innocently, but too eager to hide my vanity.

Jon pauses for a second.

"All of them," he says.

I swoon.

But I also have a problem. There are two boys I'm interested in. Most people wouldn't consider this a "problem." But I can't juggle multiple schedules. In fact, I can't juggle at all.

---

The Struggle
Dating two guys isn't working, I tell my mother. Tonight, I have another date with Matt. I'm thinking of a series of Elimidate challenges that will get rid of one. Maybe some kind of shirtless competition? Perhaps a poetry slam? But an hour before we're supposed to leave, I get sick.

Maybe this is a good thing, I think, holding my stomach. Maybe he won't believe that I'm really sick and he'll stop talking to me, and I won't have to make a decision.

"Or maybe," my friend Stacy suggests, "you're not really sick. Maybe this is a psychosomatic reaction to your struggle."

I ponder this for a second before I throw up all over her Jimmy Choos.

I call Matt and cancel our date, pleading illness. Matt doesn't sound pleased -- or convinced.

Later that night, Jon calls, and we talk for an hour while I lie on the couch sipping diet ginger ale. Maybe the decision's been made. Perhaps fate's intervened.

That Friday, Matt shows up at a bar I'm at, orders an overly sweet drink, and apologizes for seeming like an ass on the phone. Damn it! I forgot how good-looking he was.

He leaves, and I'm supposed to arrange our next date.

I totally feel like Trista from The Bachelorette.

---

Set Up
Maybe the problem is that I don't like these two guys enough, I decide in yoga class while standing in the tree pose. Maybe there's someone out there who's 10 times cuter than either of them. Maybe dating is just like exercising: To get the best results, you have to mix up your workouts.

I ask my boss to arrange a date with one of the nice West Side Catholic boys he's always bragging up.

He consults his vast database of available men -- i.e., his hockey team -- and finds Mark, a 28-year-old owner of a security-door company. My boss tells me not to take him to any "fruity" places or restaurants with one-syllable names. I should also shut up about being a vegetarian. Midwestern men don't like that, he tells me.

But three days before the scheduled meeting, Mark cancels.