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" Writer Emily Listfield found herself suddenly single when her husband unexpectedly died after 10 years of marriage. She was completely unprepared for the adventures (and misadventures) that awaited her on the dating scene. Her first chapter: After a year of mourning her husband&amp;#039;s death, Emily ventures out for her first date in years \u2014 and her first blind date ever.   I am about to head out on the first blind date of my life \u2014 and I am feeling crazily optimistic (&amp;quot;crazy&amp;quot; being the operative word). Anyone with a shred more dating experience than me (and that includes most women over the age of, say, 14) can tell you that the proper attitude toward a blind date is one of extreme caution, with perhaps just a soup\u00E7 on of hope. But the last time I went on any kind of date it was a different century, literally. There might have been shoulder pads involved. So I&amp;#039;m approaching blind dating with rose-colored blinders on.   This was all my boss Sally&amp;#039;s idea. It was time, she decided, for me to &amp;quot;get out there.&amp;quot; She began to give my phone number to every eligible (read: single and under 80) man she ran across. (Yes, I agreed to this plan. I was a widow with a full-time job and a 6-year-old daughter \u2014 I wasn&amp;#039;t exactly hanging out in bars meeting people.) Sally met Mark at a cocktail party, and after a 10-minute chat, during which she confirmed that he had no arrest record, she promptly gave him my number.   Mark&amp;#039;s specs seemed great \u2014 early 40s, divorced, steady job, handsome (according to Sally, whose word I will never take on anything again. Ever). When he called the next day, I agreed to go out to dinner and the theater. This was a major rookie error. RULE #1: Never meet a blind date for more than coffee or drinks and, for added insurance, have a friend call 20 minutes into it so you can claim a babysitting emergency if necessary.  (&amp;quot;Her fever is how high? I&amp;#039;ll be right home.&amp;quot;)   Five minutes before I have to leave for my big date, I stand in the living room for a last-minute outfit check by my daughter, Sasha, and babysitter, Joyce. We are all a little giddy. This is an adventure for them, too, after all. I have bought a new dress for the first time in months, and do a little twirl for their approval. RULE #2: Do not \u2014 I repeat, do not \u2014 go in for major shopping before a blind date. If the evening goes well, you&amp;#039;ll be sorry you didn&amp;#039;t save your clothing allowance for the all-important second date. If it doesn&amp;#039;t, you&amp;#039;ll be exceedingly cranky when your Am Ex bill arrives.   I am about to leave when Sasha races to her room and comes back with a drawing of a brilliant-hued rainbow. &amp;quot;If you like him, give it to him,&amp;quot; she instructs gravely. &amp;quot;If not, bring it home.&amp;quot; (Clearly, we are both very new at this. This kind of raw hopefulness will not surface again.) I carefully fold it and put it in my bag. I envision this act of generosity becoming part of &amp;quot;our&amp;quot; story, the one Mark and I will tell in years to come of the night we met. I kiss Sasha and head out.   Mark is waiting for me in front of the theater. From a distance, he looks exactly as Sally described him: six feet tall, dark suit, full head of hair, handsome. I don&amp;#039;t know what all my single friends are complaining about \u2014 I&amp;#039;m loving this dating thing. As I get closer, though, the image begins to go seriously awry. Mark is wearing a three-inch-wide neon Winnie the Pooh tie. With Tigger. An enormous, shocking pink Tigger that takes up half his chest. He does not seem particularly glad to see me either. In fact, he looks downright bored before we&amp;#039;ve even gotten through the hellos. Nevertheless, I decide to overlook his sartorial misjudgment (ties can always be &amp;quot;lost by the dry cleaner&amp;quot;) and his surliness. I smile gamely and we head to dinner \u2014 at an Arby&amp;#039;s across the street. Listen, I don&amp;#039;t need the Four Seasons, but I was envisioning something with cloth napkins.   Conversation does not exactly flow. Mark sits sullenly and doesn&amp;#039;t ask me a single question about my life; I try to pick up the slack. I have been known to get information out of a 6-year-old, I think to myself; I should be able to do this. Two minutes into it, though, Mark starts twitching and head-bobbing maniacally. I&amp;#039;m not talking a little tic, I&amp;#039;m talking Tourette&amp;#039;s. Let me go on record as saying I have nothing against neurological disorders \u2014 though it might have been nice if Sally had warned me. But this does bring up some etiquette issues. Am I supposed to pretend it isn&amp;#039;t happening? Tell him, &amp;quot;That&amp;#039;s okay, I bite my nails&amp;quot;? (Before you start feeling sorry for him, let me add that the only piece of information I really get out of him the entire evening is that he&amp;#039;s involved in some quasi-religious cult.)   While Mark mumbles something about a rebirthing class that changed his life, all I can think about is what will happen if he starts to bark in the theater. I have one moment of hope on the walk over, when the twitching stops. I quickly figure out that he doesn&amp;#039;t twitch standing up, only sitting down. (This, by the way, is Sally&amp;#039;s defense. She only saw him standing.) Unfortunately, it&amp;#039;s hard to avoid sitting down at the theater. I fantasize about going to the bathroom and not coming back, but even under extreme circumstances, that seems just a little too, well, extreme.   Somehow, I make it through what feels like the longest play in the history of the western world \u2014 sans barking (though I am a little motion sick from sitting next to his shaking chair). Out on the street, Mark clearly has as little interest in continuing the evening as I do. He barely offers to walk me to a cab. We say goodnight without looking each other in the eye. The next morning I take the drawing from my bag, smooth it out, and give it back to Sasha. She looks crestfallen. &amp;quot;This dating thing might be a little more complicated than I thought,&amp;quot; I tell her gently. &amp;quot;Why?&amp;quot; she asks. &amp;quot;Well, I have to find someone I love who loves me. And you.&amp;quot; She considers this. &amp;quot;How long do you think that will take?&amp;quot; she demands.  * * *  Six years later, I&amp;#039;m still at it. (No, I can&amp;#039;t believe it, either.) I have gone on many more blind dates (though not through Sally, thank you very much). I&amp;#039;ve met one man I wanted to commit to, and others I&amp;#039;ve wanted to have committed. Twitch, as we have come to call my first blind date, has become part of our story \u2014 Sasha&amp;#039;s and mine. RULE #3: Don&amp;#039;t tell your child about every date (blind or otherwise) you go on.  She will a) risk developing an unhealthy pessimism about romance when she sees how many don&amp;#039;t pan out, and b) never look at Winnie the Pooh in quite the same way again. Worst of all, she will tease you mercilessly about every date for years to come.   Check out the next installment of Sex and the Single Mom in the December issue of Redbook and get updates from Emily on her latest dating adventures on our sex and love blog, Hot &amp;amp;amp; Bothered. "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
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