I was a little blue after my Thursday night date with Number Two. I'm eager for things to get going, to where we can just pick up the phone and call each other without worrying about appearing too eager to do so. How do you know when that is? It's a pretty complicated equation, but it works out to something like this (roughly):


Where

:_e/p_e is the psychic mass of the ego,

:_c/p_c is the psychic mass of the complex

( is the repression factor,

and 2 is the angle of consciousness.

According to my calculations (I have one of those cool Texas Instrument calculators with all the fancy buttons to do them on) we're not there yet.

Of course, it's only date number two (number three is this afternoon). But so much for speed-dating, eh?

Yeah, I realize I'm rushing in at this point, but it's like Millay says in one of her sonnets: "Time, and to spare, for patience by and by." (I might heed the wisdom of another one, though: "...it is folly to be sunk in love,/And madness plain to make the matter known.")

Problem is, I had a slow week, not much going on workwise. It would be better to be busy.

All I can do at this point is repeat my mantra "be here now." Ah. but those three little words contain multitudes of meaning, don't they? It could take a lifetime to parse that deceptively simple phrase.

I have to admit, I've never been overly cautious in matters of amore. In fact, I'm sure some would characterize my amorous activities in the past as rash, even reckless. But I've never regretted my snap judgments, even after surveying the wreckage. I've had a few smash-ups in my time, but it's not like it happens every day. If they had Lover's Insurance I don't think my premiums would be any higher than the average.

The thing you realize when something comes along is that people have a tendency to mistake love for other things and other things for love. I know I have.

Once you consent to the heart as your guide, you're in for a bumpy ride, that's for sure. Down a lot of winding, steep, dark and narrow streets. Love is another country, with bad signage, and no GPS coverage. And worse, each love is its own country, with its own language, cuisine, and customs.

Of course I am as likely to follow my nose as I am to follow my heart. I'm a big believer in the theory of scents. And that's really what's driving me crazy about Number Two right now.

Has my nose ever misled me? I don't think so. But unfortunately there are other factors at play. Socialization, for one. Modern man does not go sniffing around for mates. But once you do get to the sniffing around phase of things, presumably following cocktails, dancing, and maybe a bit of witty repartee, it's a factor. And where there's a choice of mates, all things more or less being equal, it's a major factor, I think.

So, a good scent—or a sympathetic or agreeable one—is still just a second step. It's easy to get stuck there, though. It's wise to be cautious.

Trouble is, one is never wise in love, only in its aftermath. And you will not be wise in its aftermath unless you allow yourself to go ahead and make an utter fool of yourself in the thick of it. There is nothing worse than caution in this nascent stage of relations. Not only does it go utterly against nature, but caution bespeaks the perception of danger—or worse, that sterile word we use to speak of our fear of lost time, money, and status: risk.

Of course, as those old maps depicting the ends of the known world used to warn: "here there be tygers." If you're going to leave your known world for open waters, you have to be prepared for scary monsters, one of which will no doubt turn out to be you.

It's always instructive to remember: we don't walk into love, we fall. Flailing, screaming, a ball of fire. It ain't pretty. But you're probably in good company. In fact, one of the bonds between lovers is formed from the privilege of seeing each other ass over tea kettle.

People want it all, though, don't they? But you always have to consent—or at least to reconcile yourself—to losing something in love. My old Tasmanian friend John Herbert, whom I met many years ago in a hostel outside of Florence, and who thrashed me mercilessly and repeatedly in chess over that long, memorable weekend, once said to me: "you love someone, but it halves you."

That's what you're in for when you push off from shore in your little dinghy: the strange physics of unknown latitudes. Just remember to pack a lunch for two.