"Oops. Something went wrong ." You will be thinking that shortly after reading this story. "There's no sex at all in this tale," and you will be right, since I just used the word in the title as a marketing trick. Ultimately it worked, you clicked on it.

I was in my late thirties and freshly divorced after a ten year marriage. My self-image gravitated towards the floor, just like my once perky assets the superficial men are known to value. Men, speaking of, seemed as extraneous to me as rocket science . Dating, by the same token, was the next frontier.

After my divorce, nothing was farther from my horizon than men, sex, and dating.

When Valentine's day came, I will not lie, I felt sad and lonely.

My friend Linda, was convinced I was miserable because I didn't have a man in my life not because my husband left me for a woman 10 years older, sending me into a corner, knees up to my chin and scratching my head in utter stupor .

Linda proudly announced one day that she had the perfect man for me.

Ignoring my cynicism when I raised an eyebrow at the oxymoron, she was sure instead, that this Uber man she knew was possibly the answer to my chagrin.

So Linda's friend called me one night and in a good fella', Joe Pesci way of spitting out words while stretching the good old English dictionary to limits I was unfamiliar with, told me that my happiness was just around the corner.

Next night, from a red Camero sporting artistically painted flames on both sides, he honked his horn in front of my house. No doubt, in the animal kingdom, this would have been a call for mating and time for the male to show off his colorful plumage, but in his case, it was my signal to get out of my house and board the flamemobil .

I acknowledged in my head that things were going downhill for me as we were pulling in the Olive Garden parking lot and I had to struggle to get out of the passenger seat and catch up to my date, who was already a couple of steps ahead of me.

Later, during a visit to the lady's room, I found myself pondering an escape through the small window on the back wall. I did not. Instead, I returned to the table and listened to my date's stories from high school (which incidentally was the last record of schooling on his resume) .

I made it through the night without the big vein on my forehead exploding or my fork wedging itself between his eyes. My Paxil must have been working overtime that night because I seemed to have crossed the edge into insanity and returned safely without victims or God forbid, a hostage situation.

Nowadays, safely within the confinement of my new found matrimonial bliss, my oh, so buoyant better half asks me every so often, " Are you sure you don't want me to paint some flames on the side of our Volvo ?"