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anxiety, sweating, and crying from exhaustion. I’d count the few hours I had left to sleep and worry about how I’d function the next day. Tonight, my mind raced with the fear that I’d live the rest of my life in my zany-colored condo above Noah, alone with my socially challenged cat and an unreliable coffeemaker.
     
    My heart started pounding, and I grew more and more frustrated with myself. Why couldn’t I sleep? Anxiety flooded my brain, memories of mistakes I’d made and fears of mistakes I would undoubtedly make. I remembered the embarrassment I’d felt at the age of seven when my mother had caught me stealing a Snickers bar from a convenience store. I thought of the time in tenth grade when I’d failed a pop quiz in French class, where I usually got As. My teacher had written “Mauvais!” with an accompanying frowning face at the top of my paper. Even the checkout incident at Home Depot!
     
    Then my brain started rehashing memories of relationships and rejections. Like, there was the day I had finally broken up with Sean. He had loved me so intensely, and for whatever reason, I just hadn’t loved him back enough. I had broken up with him three times in the two years we had dated, each time getting back together with him because I hadn’t been able to tolerate the pain of being apart, the anguish I had caused him, and the unhappiness I had caused myself.
     
    We had made plans to move in together, and after avoiding apartment hunting for weeks, I’d gone to see a therapist friend of mine, Debby.
     
    “Look,” she’d pointed out, “Sean has become more like a brother to you than a boyfriend. And you don’t sleep with your brother.” She’d paused. “At least you’re not supposed to.”
     
    Deciding that I didn’t want a life of brotherly love, I called Sean and, in cowardly fashion, ended things on the phone. I hadn’t wanted the burden of seeing his face and watching his heart break.
     
    I pulled the pillow down tightly over my ears, as if I could block out the memory of his angry words. “You’re not doing this to me over the phone. I’m coming over,” Sean had said in a panic. He had raced over to my place, and I hadn’t even had the decency to look at him. Instead, for the twenty minutes he’d been there, I’d kept my face buried in my hands, but I hadn’t been able to stop crying and shaking because I was tearing him apart. I forget most of his words, but I remember hearing him pace across my floor. I’d just kept telling him how sorry I was. He’d punched the wall, walked to me, kissed me on the forehead, and said, “I love you.” Then he’d left quickly, and I’d sobbed on the couch for two hours.
     
    Maybe I should have stayed with Sean, who’d loved me so much, who’d been such a great guy, who’d wanted to marry me and live happily ever after. Why I hadn’t loved him that way, too, I just didn’t know. I replayed the scenario in my head until I couldn’t stand it any longer. When I finally sat up and looked at the clock, it was one in the morning. I tossed myself back down on the bed and spent the next two hours in an insomniac search for comfort: smoothing the sheets, adjusting the pillows, trying to relax and clear my head of everything negative. At three, I gave up, turned on the lights, and went to the computer.
     
    And visited the Back Bay Dates Web site.
     
    Fatigue made me feel as if I’d been chugging cheap beer; it loosened my inhibitions and nudged me in directions I wouldn’t otherwise have turned. Opening the Web page, I could see why people used Back Bay Dates. The site wasn’t filled with idiotic photos of happy couples strolling along a beach flanked by a fabulous sunset. There were no flashing hearts, no bridal bouquets bouncing across the page, no promises of perfect love, no matrimonial guarantees.
     
    On the contrary, everything was professional and streamlined. All right, I did have to fork over $39.95 for the perks of membership, but