Miracles happen. I don’t mean in the theological sense (the jury is still out on that): I mean those incredible, perfect events; the sort you think, until they happen to you, only occur in fiction.

When I went to college near New York City, hopping the train to Manhattan twice a week, I thought it was the only city in the world. I came from the boondocks and here there were actual bookstores, theaters and museums that showcased something other than prize-winning squashes. More »

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So, having burned through my surplus body fat, I emerged from my winter hibernation to attend another Speed Dating Event. I think it went pretty well. But at the same time, it reminded me of certain thoughts I had on the previous one; and thoughts I have on living in New York City in general. So, bear with a moment if you will. More »

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So, I got my results back from the speed dating place: zero matches. Since I may even have misspelled some of the five names I put down (having only learned halfway through the trick of writing the girls’ names on the back of my “match sheet”), I don’t consider this a crushing personal defeat, but it does make me reflect further on how the evening went. More »

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To be up-front, this is the story of a Speed Dating Event I attended recently; but it’s prefaced by a few thoughts on what it might mean to find love these days, and just where the heck the concept of Speed Dating might come from.

I studied abroad in India my junior year of college, and I remember vividly a conversation with the father of my host family. We were drinking liqueurs on the back porch of the house and discussing love; the subject of arranged marriages came up and (quite drunk) he asked me if I would consider an arranged marriage myself.

My answer was: Yes, definitely. More »

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How can I describe you when I only need you to pull me out of the bottomless pit of my self-absorption? If I could imagine you, I wouldn’t need you.

But I want someone who takes life seriously—who reads Jane Austen for the story and not the cover picture of Mr. Darcy with his cravat undone, and who isn’t in the foreground of all her Facebook pictures. I’m sorry, but the picture should be “the Taj Mahal” and not “I went to India.” And most of all, who doesn’t think I’m a snob for saying all that; because a snob is another sort of person who likes things for some other reason (the distinction they give him) than what they actually are. More »

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I didn’t go on my first date until late in high school. Until then, I had been your fairly standard loser, more interested in books than girls; yet I harbored the suspicion that somewhere within me lurked a great romantic. The date (or so I thought) was a success; it was she, and not I, who initiated my first kiss. Later that week, she broke up with me on the grounds that having a boyfriend would interfere with her violin lessons—and in spite of the words of cynical friends, I’ve always believed this was the truth. What motive is too silly to ascribe to the half-formed personalities of high schoolers? More »

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