It is already six o’clock. You are ready for the big date. Well, almost. The little black dress that you bought at Neiman-Marcus still hangs in your closet. Feeling butterflies in the stomach, you reach for it and slip it on (for the tenth time), and zipped it up. Perfect. Well, almost. All glammed up and ready to go. You’ve got the vanity kit in the purse, the make-up’s been re-touched, and the mandatory spritz of perfume is through. You’ve got everything in place, well, except for the guy. Where is my date?, you ask. A million other questions race through your mind. You can’t help think about whether he was in a car accident or, even worse, if he changed his mind about the date. Feeling the anxiety now creeping through your body, you dial his cellphone number. He answers the phone and tells you in a half-embarrassed voice that he is now your front porch. The immediately, you hear the doorbell. He’s here!, you silently scream in your as you glide down the staircase. Of course, you first had to take one last look at the mirror to check your teeth, hair, and dress before taking that one long breath of air. Finally, you open the...
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