I was dumped.

He said he was sorry.

I gave him another chance.

He disappeared.

He apologized. Explained. Pursued. Attempted to make amends.

I kissed him. And said goodbye.

I went on dates.

I met a guy. He’s disarmingly mature, attractive and intelligent.

We go away for long weekends.

We spend time with friends.

I keep a toothbrush at his house.

He talks to me and not at me.

He likes my cats.

He tells me what he’s thinking.

He asks about my day.

He asks me to dance.

He sees me.

I turn 31 next week. And I’m happy.

Frankly,

I tend to see the world through an Ansel Adams photographic lens, that is to say, “black and white”. While I keep attempting to inject a wider spectrum of gray into my two toned, “right vs. wrong”, “love vs. hate” world, it’s been consistent uphill struggle.

I believe boundaries to be an important part of life. Comfort zones. Deal breakers. The disclosure of privileged information. Whether they indicate the point at which a relationship reaches the end of its emotional tether or simply the line that, once crossed, lands you swiftly in an Iranian jail and resulting in years of imprisonment followed by equally scary Lisa Ling interviews upon release – boundaries, if not clearly marked, can be precarious places.  

My therapist likened healthy emotional boundaries to the idyllic image of a house surrounded by a manicured lawn and bounded one each side by a picket fence. The fence is a clearly defined, yet semi permeable structure erected to keep undesirables at bay (i.e. negative pressures, cognitive trespassers, basically the in-laws of the emotional community); while still allowing for the option of admittance of positive emotions, constructive monologues and affirmative influences, (i.e. the puppies and kittens or free range hens romping about our mental yard).

After describing this Zen-like state of mental health to which she recommended I strive, she took a deep breath. Scarlett, at present your “house” is surrounded on the north, south and west by a 10 foot high brick wall, laced with barb wire. The east side, however, not only is void a wall, but any clear demarcation of property whatsoever. Moreover, you have posted a neon, blinking, “open-house” sign out front exposing the lawn to many an unwelcome trampler.

That is to say, either you go to inexorable lengths to keep people out, or you lay out the red carpet all too quickly, consequences be damned. A situation very much in need of modification.

I took issue with this image for a number of reasons not least of which being the necessity for an immediate change of setting from a suburban, “Leave It To Beaver” avec picket fence to one of a urban penthouse condo with a 24 door man. But that’s besides the point.

Whether we’re talking about 24-hour door men and alarm systems or brick walls and picket fences, both images denote unhealthy extremes, the hallmark of a black & white worldview. Either I’m walled up like Fort Knox, or I am constructing an emotional superhighway for which I have not even thought to charge a toll. More often than not I frantically switch between the two exhausting both myself and those around me.

All this to say, I met someone. He’s kind of great. I like him. Comfort zones have been pushed. Boundary lines obscured. Needless to say, I’m more than a little bit freaked out and those brick walls with their height and strength and ability to obscure look mighty appealing in the face of vulnerability. And so up and down I go in on the "he loves me, he loves me not", "I'm safe, I'm going to get hurt." yo yo.

Its painfully elusive, this emotional balance. Can a boundary line be redrawn once crossed? Do I permit him to wander unchecked about upon my emotional real estate? Do I change the locks just in case?

Or do I stand here and first let my eyes adjust to the newly emerging shades of gray?

Frankly,

It is in that hopeful spirit that the equation can, in fact, be solved that I am asking you, my readers, do YOU have the answer? Can you whisper the secret to a happily ever after in my ear? In short, what insight do you have to share, what advice do you have to give on the the subjects of dating or relationships?

I know that good advice, much like good champagne, don’t come cheap (at least not according to my most recent therapy bill) but apparently, I need it! Therefore I will give 2 off Broadway Tickets for the most sensible, shrewed, clever advice I receive over the next 12 days. The winner will get to spend an evening with NYC’s newest dating guru at “Miss Abigail’s Guide to Dating, Mating & Marriage,” now playing at Sofia’s Downstairs Theater, 221 W. 46th St., NY, NY.

The comedy centers around the story of Miss Abigail, the most sought-after relationship expert to the stars (think Dr. Ruth meets Emily Post), and her sexy sidekick Paco, as they travel the world teaching Miss Abigail’s "how-to's" on dating, mating and marriage! (contest rules and details below).

I’ll announce the winner on October 13th so put your thinking cap on and show me what you’ve got!

Frankly, you might even learn a thing or two yourself!

MY RULES

1. All submissions should be sent via the Comments, Contact Form OR Tweet it to ScarlettL with the hashtag #ScarlettChallenge.

2. Deadline: All submissions must be received y 11:59 p.m. on Monday, October 11th to participate.

3. Multiple Entries Accepted. Are you a smarty pants? Been in the trenches and have war stories and sage wisdom just dying to be released? No problem! Throw all of your wisdom at me! I can take it, I promise!

4. The winner will be announced on Wednesday, October 13, 2010.

5. The tickets may be used for the following performances: Wednesdays at 2PM, Thursdays at 8PM, Fridays at 8PM, Saturdays at 2PM & 5PM and Sundays at 3PM and 7:30PM.

6. The tickets are valid thru November 28, 2010. This date cannot be extended.

Good luck and I can’t WAIT to see what you come up with!

Dear eHarmony:

We need to talk.

I’m not ready for a commitment of this magnitude.

Six months ago, not entirely certain of the degree to which I was ready to submerge myself once again into the DC dating pool, I timidly dipped my toes back into the pond to test the waters. The time and consideration with which you professed to offer a “deep and more meaningful” online dating experience, seemed the best way to better ease myself back into the life of a single Washingtonian. Unsure of my readiness for significant emotional involvement, I thought it best to, at the very least, stretch my dating legs lest all romantic muscles become atrophied with disuse.

I want to see other people.

You have set me up with not one, but THREE ex boyfriends. Well done, swifty. Well done. While this detour down “Poor Decision Lane” followed by jaunt along “Regret Blvd” was diverting, I could have had a V8.

Add to this your consistent and seemingly unrelenting parade of men who reach an average and unimpressive vertical limit at 5’9. This stature, or lack thereof, leaves them at an inconvenient eye level with my rather substantial bust line. Standing at 5’10 in my shortest pair of heels, any way you solve this equation is sure to equal distracted disaster.

I need some space.

You attract immature men  boys who throw hissy fits and pouting tantrums worthy of a 2 year old deprived of his [insert popular toddler toy] on my front doorstep when I fail to invite them in at the end of an evening. My neighbors thank you for the entertaining spectacle, but I am not amused.

I’m not saying its you…but its DEFINITELY not me. 

You’ve served as a beacon to boys apparently still residing if not physically, then definitely mentally, in the frat house. In what universe did you think that the way to win this Irish girl’s heart is to pound back Guinness after Guiness until you're about as articulate as Obama without his teleprompter. In fact I can concoct no rational scenario in which I should worry about the means by which my date will get home safely.

Please note, if a man is drinking in an attempt to get to girl drunk and trying to take advantage of her, he better make damned sure that he'll be able to drink her under the table without breaking a sweat. A drunk man is physically useless and frankly, nothing sobers me up faster or turns me off more than I man who is more intoxicated than I.  Call me crazy but I like my men IN control as opposed to slurring and staggering.

In addition, spare me the “I’m too drunk to drive, can I stay at your place until I sober up”, sob story. I'm not unsympathetic, I promise. In fact, I have two very helpful suggestions for you. Option #1: “grab a cab." Connecticut Avenue is one block that-a-way. Make like an urbanite, stick out your arm and hope for the best. Option #2:  I’ll be happy to point you in the direction of the Starbucks around the corner where you can caffeinate your way back to sober.

I need to concentrate on ME.

Let’s face it, doll, I don’t think we’re compatible. I'm sure am partly to blame. After all, It takes two to tango. I have been described as too sassy, too outspoken, too sarcastic, too cynical – many qualities which might turn off a romantic suitor.

However, I just feel that at this point in my life, I’d rather take the $29.95 I’m throwing at you every month to be fixed up with the aforementioned, sulky, vertically challenged, future AA leaders of the greater DC metropolitan area and shove it at a new pair of suede, Kelsi Dagger over-the-knee boots.

Perhaps I’ll turn to your bastard fraternity brother, Match.com for other options? Perhaps we’ll meet again someday? Perhaps fate will intervene and drop Russell Crowe on the pub stool opposite me? Who knows?

I think we’re better off being friends.

Frankly,