Once, a long time ago, years before I started dating Rob or Goblin Foo Uvula was born, I went on a blind date with a man who looked for all the world like George Costanza, except with really bad teeth. They were yellow and rather snaggly. (My computer tells me that snaggly is not a word, but if you had seen these teeth, you would know that it is.) He was a very nice guy and so obviously insecure that I did not feel as if I could follow the blind-date tradition of indicating disinterest by simply not calling. And the situation led to a depressing amount of self-evaluation as to why I placed such emphasis on a person's looks. (I almost convinced myself to give it a shot until it occurred to me that if he looked like that when he was under 30, what would he look like when he was over 30? At that point in my life, 30 seemed like a mystical barrier that would sort out so many niggling issues. Of course, that was years before I crossed that barrier, only to find the fog of uncertainty thicker than ever.)

Anyway, in the matter of George Costanza, I remained in perpetual confusion until he called me, very interested in a second date, at which point I said the first thing that came into my mind: that I was deeply into sadomasochism and since he was so clearly not, it could never work out between us.

I thought this was very clever for about fifteen seconds, until he said, "You know, I've always been interested in giving that a try," and followed with so many detailed questions that I was forced to let him down gently but a little bit more firmly than I had originally intended.

There is a lesson in here somewhere.

And by the way, Mom, I am not really into sadomasochism.