Last year this time, I was utterly alone in the dating pool and doing backstrokes. Actually I felt like I was drowning, until I hauled myself out of the pool, loofa-ed myself off and shed my old skin.

Internet dating was new for me, but I decided to boot up and list myself on Match.com, eHarmony, even Craig's list (that was a little scary) for the holidays.

First I had to determine the geographical area of my Internet dating pool. Westchester and New York City held no allure. The competitive, combative, and — frankly — sometimes untrustworthy Kings of Everything didn't interest me. Not anymore.

I was looking for the real thing and that meant doing a pretty in-depth self-analysis.

The best phrase I could come up with was, "Rugged Individualist." What else do you call a pink-haired, 50 year old rocker mom, mother of four, lupus survivor like myself?

I figured "Rugged Individualist" was a pretty good fit.

So where do Rugged Individualists live? Alaska seemed too far, but Maine was only a five-plus-hour car ride, which might do.

All my postings went out to Maine, and only Maine.

My ad said:

Lover of life, enthusiastic, even-tempered, smart woman, with high visibility job in the arts, seeks the culture, companionship, outdoors, sailing, sea-gazing, swimming, skiing, biking and walking. Currently at work on a book, I am passionate about living life to the fullest everyday. I care deeply about my friends & family. Very independent! Looking to move slow and make friends. Patience is a virtue and interesting people are a blessing. Since I live and breathe music, I don't need much entertainment at night, except I love good food, glass of wine and movies. Looking to learn, enjoy and be open to the wonders around me, with a big smile on my face and my car ready to hit the road at a drop of a hat.

Okay. I haven't written about the boyfriend in a while. Truth be told, I haven't wanted to jinx it. Things have been going so smoothly I sometimes wonder if there's something wrong?

In the past, I've kept my finger on the pulse of my relationships. If the heart wasn't racing so hard one of us was in danger of a heart attack, then the relationship didn't seem real. It was all emergency-room experiences.

Reality was at such a high pitch, such a fevered pace, there wasn't any down time or room for ambiguity.

Maybe it's maturity. Maybe I'm just exhausted post-divorce, but my new boyfriend and I have a rhythm that's positively lethargic. I'm loving it.

Here's the 411: I'm so busy rushing around with kids, job, music and meetings, that when I make a date with Mr. Right these days, I'm finding peaceful relaxation, safety, security, and the warm-fuzzies are what I'm looking for. Not a racing pulse.

First, I never worry where I stand. He thinks I'm wonderful all the time. Second, whenever I ask, "Would you like to go to such and such?" his response is always, "Are you going to be there?"

He continually assures me that the largest measure of his happiness has to do with being near me.

I remember when I was in my 20s, writing about how I needed a wife. That just goes to show how lowly the position was back then, because I was writing about needing someone to do my laundry, scrub my floors, and cook my dinners.

While Mr. Right isn't angling for the wifey position, he isn't above helping me with household chores. And, he does yard work.

Now you're saying that this sounds too good to be true.

Although divorce has damaged me to the extent that I find it hard to think of a romantic future of more than a single day, I can honestly say that, from a new-age perspective, you really can dream your way to reality.

My best girlfriend finally broke it off with the married guy she'd been seeing for the past year. Of course she didn't know he was married when she started seeing him, despite suspicious signs.

That doesn't bode well for any of us.

While warnings seem redundant, and books like Greg Behrendt and Liz Tuccillo's He's Just Not That Into You and Jamie Callan's Hooking Up or Holding Out spell out exactly what not to look for, it bears repeating: If a guy looks sweet, but acts sneaky, you should probably be wary. Has to run to catch a train after work? A tan line on his ring finger? Wants to meet for lunch, and go to hotels? Duh!

Even if it's just that little voice in the back of your head that keeps whispering, "This doesn't feel right," then it's probably not right.

The Internet is a constant source of distraction and deception. I've heard of more guys who either get hooked on cyberspace porn, or start to roam in places they shouldn't be. (Why do you think David Duchovny is being treated for sex addiction?)

It seems there's a web site now for almost everything. One of my "happily married" guy pals just met someone from a site that specializes in married couples seeking discreet affairs. A quick Google search, and philanderers.com is just a mouse click away.

My friend insists he's only looking for fun, not out to destroy his marriage, but I know differently. We FWW women can smell divorce coming a million miles away.

Because, divorce stinks; it smells like sex, lies, and the Internet.

I'm alone. I hate it. Just the other day, my girlfriends and I were thinking about the disappointment of being single, and facing summer vacations solo. It's August, and the kids are off to Fire Island for three weeks with their dad.

While I love the idea of having time to myself, I just can't get used to the house without the kids, especially since alone time often translates to lonely time.

My last relationship developed when one of my brothers reconnected me with my high school boyfriend. It seemed then as if maybe I was going to get the happy ending for my fairytale expectations.

He was my first love. I'd carried a torch for him for 30 years.

When we first got back together it was hotter than summer in the city. We drove hundreds of miles up and down the Taconic State Parkway in New York to carry out our steamy, long-distance love affair.

Everything was amazing — except for one small detail: He couldn't emotionally disconnect from his ex. It went on for four years, but things like distance, children, jobs, and his obsession with his ex got the better of us.

With the failure of this relationship, on the heels of a devastating end to my 18-year marriage, my heart snapped.

I decided to do an informal survey of my friends. One girl was dating a dysfunctional guy with a jail record and a shoe fetish. Another friend had a physical therapist for a boyfriend who'd practiced a little too much on women other than her — naked.

These were "normal" successful women. What were they thinking? What was I thinking?

I asked myself which couples I knew among friends, family, co-workers, neighbors — even celebrities — were really happy.

I came up with...a grand total of...zilch. I couldn't think of one.

So maybe it wasn't about finding the perfect guy to share a home with and marry. I want a mature kind of love, one where we keep our own addresses.