Men. Two men who might, if their powers were combined, create the perfect specimen of the human male. As it is, I’m weighing the pros of intellectual spark vs. pursuits of a less cerebral nature. It’s the classic question: If you can’t have it all, what do you want more?

Guy #1 is smart, funny, into the same stuff as me, shared values, etc etc. He’s a good, solid guy, one that looks perfectly datable on paper and someone who has made my pulse quicken not with romance or unadulterated lust, but with references to metaphysical poets and other delights that only a few (a very few) have been able to appreciate. So score one for intellectual chemistry. But is it enough to want to date someone for their brain alone?

Guy #2. Eye candy? Yes. But also dripping with Western charm and a helpfulness that can only be described as dazzling. I’d known him a full 24 hours before he was carving chicken in my kitchen as if he’d been coming over for Sunday dinner for years (never had I felt more serendipitous timing with a potluck and a chance encounter in the local park!). He carved, he wrapped, he offered to put stuff in the ‘fridge…finally, I couldn’t resist the urge to put his chivalry to the test by asking him to get one of those hard-to-reach bowls off the top shelf. Which, of course, he did. #2 was attentive without being flirtatious – enough to leave a girl wanting more.

Infatuation or compatibility? Sustainability or a flash in the pan? Mind or matter?

And why the necessity to choose?

With age, then wisdom. And with wisdom, the truth. And finally, telling the truth to myself in the same way I would tell it to anyone else. The gorgeous, messed up boy who wanted me, but not enough to grow up more and drink less, isn’t going to reform. At least not on my watch. The womanizer who tore a hole through my circle of friends ain’t gonna apologize. And my former intended isn’t going to ratchet up the courage to say goodbye before moving to Afghanistan.

These are hard truths, but no longer unspoken. I speak them, face them, and then move past them.

It was the kind of morning that I dreamt about. Clear, crisp, with a dusting of snow along the upper reaches of the Grand Canyon. A big blue sky of the kind that simply doesn’t happen back East. Even though I had seen it before, the view was awe-inspiring. And this time, I was going down, along with two friends.

We spent three days in a place where time moved in a different rhythm. Time was measured in how long it took to ascend a series of switchbacks, in how much daylight we had to set up camp, in the arc of the moon as it traveled across the night sky, in how long it took to boil a liter of water and if we would have enough fuel for a hot breakfast the following morning. Time wasn’t hours or minutes, but an organic sense of change.

Thousands of visitors come to the park each year, and only a tiny fraction hike down to the Colorado River. It’s a descent of some 5,000 feet. In hiking terms, it was 7 miles along the South Kaibab Trail from the rim to our first campsite on the canyon floor. We slept that night listening to the sound of a stream as it wound through the valley, with mule deer for visitors and a helping of red wine-in-a-box from the Phantom Ranch canteen. The canteen had a small assortment of board games, including a version of Jenga, which we took advantage of at nightfall. Hikers had added their names and hometowns to the wooden pieces. We wrote ours in, wondering if someday we might come back and be able to find the pieces again. I liked the idea of leaving something behind, of having something tangible waiting for me if I should return.

On the second night, we had to weight one of the tents down with rocks as 50mph winds gusted through the valley. I slept with my gear and pack inside, afraid that it would be blown away if I didn’t. Before the winds had kicked up, we lay on our backs looking up at the stars, which were bright and wild. The moonlight threw sharp shadows across the campground, which was comforting on such a night.

Dawn broke calm and we ascended the last 4.5 miles up the Bright Angel Trail, gasping at the magnificent views and the distances we covered. We were overwhelmed by the magnitude of the landscape in which we traveled. And tired, yes. Footsore. Thirsty. Ready to return to Las Vegas and civilization and hot showers.

The hike was such stuff as dreams are made of, and there’s a part of me that hasn’t woken up yet.

PS Lots of advice floating around on what to pack/what not to pack for hiking the Grand Canyon. A separate, painfully practical post on what might be useful to bring is forthcoming!

Why it’s a great date: Ice skating is romantic. Period. In case you aren’t sure, watch The Cutting Edge.

How much will it cost?: $30-$40, and that’s if both you and your date need skate rentals, and includes a stop in the cafe for cocoa or coffee afterwards

How to get there: Archives/Navy Memorial metro

The work is done for you. Each month, we’ll post another great date idea, so you can take the credit and we can be altruistically satisfied that DC’s singletons are moving beyond the perfunctory postwork drink in their quest for love.

It all started innocently enough. I was rereading No News at Throat Lake, journalist Lawrence Donegan’s hilarious memoir of a year spent working at a newspaper in a tiny Irish village after fleeing the empty gentrification – and toasted pine nut salads – of London. I was deeply sympathetic, having reached a similar ebb in my feelings regarding DC.

Bonus attraction was that, before his career as a reporter, Lawrence had also played bass with Lloyd Cole and the Commotions. Contemplating a career change myself, I decided to investigate the author’s previous life even further. A quick search on Google and YouTube yielded pictures, lyrics, even music videos of the band. I watched and listened. The earnest words, turtleneck sweaters, and melodies that seemed to slide so easily into my head got me hooked. I was smiling before I knew it.

Fast forward 20-some years and Lloyd Cole, now a solo artist, sounds cantankerous and on occassion like a friggin’ stick in the mud in the “Ask Lloyd” section of his website, although I commend the willingness to interact with fans. Lawrence is once again writing articles, and not on the fringes of civilization in County Donegal. The guys aged decades within minutes. It was a shock to the system, seeing a career arc not in natural time, but in virtual time. One minute they were cute, soulful musicians of exactly the kind I would have crushed on if they were still making music.  Or if I’d been old enough to listen when they were – I wasn’t even in kindergarten when their first record was released. And then, I saw their real selves in the current year, far, far away from the “glum rock” and guitars of the 1980s.

Hanging pictures of the middle-aged Commotions on the walls of my apartment would be downright creepy (sorry, lads), but you can bet that I’ll be buying Rattlesnakes, if only for old times’ sake.

Sunday’s Super Bowl was a gorgeous illustration of this. Simply put, it was a game well played. James Harrison’s stunning 100-yard run had me on the edge of my seat. I might have been screaming. I might have been out of my seat.  But there was only one thing on my mind, and that was watching the game. I hadn’t seen anything like it since Super Bowl XL, when Willie Parker sprinted up the field to set a then-record run.

Athletics aside, there’s something about seeing 250 pounds worth of happy that is irresistible. Hines Ward’s face lights up with a smile that is infectious. I have to smile back, whether I’m in the stands at Heinz Field, or watching on my pathetic television from my couch at home, or surrounded by screaming spectators around the bigscreen. He’s happy, I see he’s happy, and it makes me happy.

I played a game of touch football over the weekend (my first since college, when I had a short-lived career on a coed intramural team) and I slid into nostalgia along with the thick mud that covered the National Mall. The weather was warm enough to feel like spring, so just being outside sent a jolt of endorphins through my system. But it was being back at the game that provided the real high. I ran, I caught a few short passes, I talked smack to the opposing team. I was so out of my usual realm, and it was awesome. I wanted to hit the ground, I wanted to tackle, I wanted to play beyond the dainty rules of two-hand touch and get deep into this visceral sport that was about as far removed from my day-to-day existence as brain surgery.

I wasn’t anywhere close to being a hero that afternoon. But it made me wish that I was a heck of a lot better player than I was. And I really hope I don’t have to wait until next year to try.

With tickets and date secured, my next step was to indulge in some primping and preening. Borrowing some wisdom from Steel Magnolias, “There is no such thing as natural beauty,” I accordingly – somewhat out of character – jumped into an estrogen cloud and tanned, waxed, exfoliated, and got freshly outfitted with a dress, new makeup, and impossible heels. And then I was at last ready to make my grand entrance (via metro) to the Ritz Carlton.

In spite of the preparation, I went into the event with no other agenda than letting the evening unfold as it may. And unfold it did, in some truly unexpected ways. Sharon Stone’s rambling welcome speech, for one. The sudden disappearance of the dinner buffet, leaving my date and I pretty much dependent on creme brulee and alcohol for our caloric intake that evening. Stepping out of a cab at 1am and seeing the Capitol Building silhouetted against a clear night sky, and still, after all these years in the city, having a breathtaking moment.

We wavered between the trivial and the disarmingly substantial. Chatting over our plateful of dessert, we veered into the territory of past relationships and from there, into the shaky ground of breakups. Turning to me, he said,

“And then you start to wonder about yourself, and wonder why you’re not married.”

To hear this from a man – a funny, attractive man with a JD and an MBA – was enough to put the moment in freezeframe. It was an unexpected moment of candor in an evening given, in part, to celebrating the cache of just showing up and projecting an aura of unruffled success. And I had to wonder, “Are the sexes really that different after all?”

After making a commiserating reply warning of the dangers of such slippery slope thinking, we moved on to happier things, like champagne and mini-cheeseburgers. And then, not content to let the evening end at midnight when the gala was officially over, we cajoled a taxi driver into taking us to Capitol Hill, where the festivities continued in somewhat less opulent surroundings, where I was only too happy to down a pint of Yuengling in a ballgown.

The evening, as it turned out, wasn’t any one thing. It was making an appearance. It was getting past appearances. It was black tie. It was a dive bar. It was as complex as Washington, and just as hard to pin down.

With that sorted, I was free to devote my time to strategizing for my upcoming meeting with the band. I mean, meeting a rock star or two or five is every gal’s dream. I read through everyone’s bio on the website, listened to tracks from the new album, and fretted over what to wear. Being in PR, I debated whether I should prepare talking points. As the time for our appointed meeting drew closer, I found myself second guessing everything. Funky red glasses, or contacts? Lots of black eyeliner – or minimal makeup? Jeans or skirt?

At last we arrived, and, in spite of a prime location directly above Penn Station, the radio station where the band would be playing was pretty unassuming. We took our seats, Josh and Stevie D. from Buckcherry played a couple acoustic pieces (including “Sorry,” which might be the best song for getting a girl back…ever) and then it was off to line up to get our pictures taken. Smile. Click. Done.

I did get to shake hands with the guys, which was cool. In fact, Stevie D. had a two-handed grip that would make any politician proud and, when I thanked him for coming, looked me in the eyes and said, “No, thank you – you - for coming.”

You gotta hand it to ‘em, the guys are smooth.

And if there’s a moral to be gleaned from all this, it’s not to overthink things too much, because chances are, once you’re in the thick of it, all your carefully laid plans will no longer be relevant.

So what do you say to a rock star? Not much, because you won’t have time for more than “hi.”

The Crush (Who is Now Gay)
Everybody’s got one. The cute, witty guy or gal you pined over in high school. There was an aura of the unattainable about them. And now we all know why: they are battin’ for the other team. At least there will be one person of the opposite sex you won’t be afraid to get drunk around.

The Family Man
The sight of wedding rings and pictures of children was a bit of a shock to the system, especially after several years in a committment-phobe city like Washington. I got a bear hug from my first boyfriend (in the 5th grade, who won my heart by picking daisies and mailing them to me), now the proud father of a 4-month-old son and married to another classmate. They are adorable, especially the 4-month-old.

The Big Deal
Every class has one or two. It was interesting to see, ten years on, how the old cliques realigned. The preppies clustered together, the band geeks claimed a table in the far corner, and the smart kids, now smart adults, gathered to talk about graduate programs and the cities they are now living in. Some things really don’t change, and I’m not sure if it’s an indication of the Big Man’s charisma, or something in the Class of ’98, that people are still flocking in his wake. And why I was still gratified to get a hello.

The Ex
Maybe you broke his heart your junior year. Maybe she left you stranded for a date right before prom. Whatever the case, there’s bound to be an encounter with a little blast from the past. But really, compared to all the drama of college and early adult relationships, whatever happened back in the 11th grade is more likely than not pretty lightweight. So take satisfaction in the fact that both of you have satisfactorily moved on. Or if not, nothing better than seizing the moment while you’re both in bouts of nostalgia to see if the home fires are still burning. In my case, not so much.

The Wildcard
Just when I thought I had the reunion and everyone who was there pegged, one of my classmates appeared at my shoulder and said, “Hey, I didn’t get a chance to say hello to you earlier.” Unlike some of the attendees, this guy hadn’t married or put on 80 pounds since graduation. It was unexpected and sweet and made me kick myself for not swapping email addresses. He is, after all, in a band. And if there’s one thing about the Class of ’98 that is true, it’s that we still have as much potential as we did when we crossed the stage at graduation.

It was a cold December night – December 13, 2008, to be precise – on Capitol Hill. Jason* takes his girlfriend to a Christmas concert at the Folger Shakespeare Library, knowing that she’s interested in Spanish music, the theme of that evening’s program, after she’d spent time studying in Puerto Rico. After a fabulous concert, where the two get cozy in the Folger’s small theater, they return to the car, where Jason had arranged for a friend to deliver two steaming cups of hot cocoa and a small wrapped box. Surprise! His girlfriend sips her hot chocolate while Jason drives to the Capitol Christmas tree. When they arrive, she opens the box to find a photo of them and poem that he had written her, and the last line reads,

Will you marry me?

He then drops to one knee, pulls a ring from his pocket, and officially pops the question. His buddies, whom he had waiting with cameras at the ready, capture the moment. And of course she says yes.

Obviously, the romance factor at work here is pretty stunning. But equally impressive is the amount of thought that went into creating a moment that will live on long beyond December 13. Gentlemen, the bar has been raised.

*Name has been changed