About a month before Levi and I were married, he decided to get a tattoo. It was a tribal sort of tattoo and was of a circle that came together at three points. Somehow this circle was (maybe still is) very symbolic to him, and he told me that it was symbolic in terms of our relationship, our coming together.

I found myself thinking about that tattoo yesterday as I was driving on the freeway, alone. Since I've had Adrian I have found that I have all of my epiphanies, realizations, and profound ideas while driving — that's also where I do all of my problem solving. Driving to and from work, daycare, etc. is the only "me" time I really get anymore.

But, back to the tattoo. So I found myself thinking about his stupid tattoo — what it represented to Levi, what it represented to me — and I began to wonder what he must think of that tattoo now? (I mean, I've always said tattooing somebody's name on you is probably the stupidest thing you can do [unless that someone is your child], but I've never thought about a symbol.)

That's when my new epiphany happened. That tattoo looks like a cyclone. Our relationship was a cyclone. We came together in a frenzy, ran circles 'round and 'round until we spun totally out of control wreaking havoc on ourselves and everything around us. Then we broke apart, each person forever changed, each on a new path.

I'm a firm believer in everything happens for a reason, that there are no coincidences, that we are each put here for our own unique purposes; and every epiphany I have like this one brings me closer and closer to finding mine.

I've hit several bumps along the way to reinventing myself. It's hard to keep in mind that this is quite necessary and unavoidable when you're in the thick of things.

Being a control freak, I've tried to get around these issues. It's easy to get caught in the maelstrom caused by bucking convention and listening to your heart or going with that gut feeling, especially when doing so does not give you the results you wanted or expected.

I am in the process of trying to recover from a hat trick of seemingly debilitating setbacks: personally, professionally, and physically.

I am not ashamed to tell you that there were quite a few times where I handled each of these incidents with self-pity, tears, or alcohol. Or all of these things.

Always the multitasker.

I guess the point I am trying to make — to myself, if no one else — is that these things happen often and usually simultaneously. It may seem easy to roll over and take it. But I'll have to be prepared to live with that decision — for the rest of my life.

Certain men's colognes drive women wild. I remember the first one that intoxicated me — English Leather.

I used to put it on my pillowcase and dream about Tom, Dick Harry — whoever. They all wore it. That and Brut, and all the fathers in the world wore Old Spice.

Then as time went on I had longer term relationships and longer relationships with a specific cologne. In fact, cologne became a relationship in itself. Now every time I smell a brand that a certain man wore, it causes a rush of memories of HIM.

It's confusing for me when a new man wears an ex's smell.

Some familiar colognes make me want to slap a guy I don't even know.

Because of this I recently I had a terrible break up with Paco Rabanne.

So the question is... Can you date a guy who smells like your ex?

Fast forward a few months. Ex had found a lovely new substitute for me, a recent divorcee who graciously took on my former roles as hostess, gardener, and short order cook for the kids. Okay, I'm lying. There was nothing lovely about this woman.

She was a sociopath and gold digger and I hated every minute that my girls were exposed to her, but let's not quibble over semantics. With Ex occupied, I thought I might be free to try dating again without former spousal interference.

R was a natural choice. He was sexy, single, and we'd been friends for years. It seemed inevitable that we would eventually connect. And we were very discreet. Ex and I had vowed to keep our children out of our personal lives and I figured at least I should try to live up to my end of the bargain.

But it seems we weren't discreet enough. R called one morning to tell me he just received a disturbing phone call. "I've put two and two together," Ex had blustered. "You are dating my wife! Don't try and hide it — I've had my suspicions validated by someone close to the situation." (Yes, he really talks like that. Reason 895 why I had to leave him.)

R was understandably confused. He responded: "I asked you months ago if it would be okay for me to ask Nancy out and you said yes."

"Well, going out on a date and dating are two different things," Ex countered primly.

My wife? Asking permission? Didn't the separation agreement and subsequent divorce decree allow for eventual dating? Since when do exes morph into father substitutes? And did Ex really think that one date with me would be such a snore that a second was out of the question?

I don't think dating will ever be the same again. It seems impossible to not end up at least slightly jaded after going through the divorce "process." And it seems to me that that makes sense.

I loved Levi with all of my being. I was in such awe of him that it's astounding. I would have done anything and everything for him — and I did. We did everything together. We had big goals, dreams and ambitions; we worked together to achieve them.

So then, it is understandable that after watching those dreams all come crashing down, after understanding that your heart can literally feel broken, that after experiencing the most devastating feelings that one can possibly feel, that you wouldn't want to set yourself up for that again.

I feel sometimes that I am fast-forwarding my current relationship as it happens; like I am writing a book and in a sense, writing our ending. This helps me to feel in control. Being in control is my new comfort zone.

I really like this new guy a lot. I've dated him for three months, which, since Levi, is a new record for me.

Thing is, it doesn't feel like it did before. Only on a rare, fleeting occasion do I ever feel that giddy euphoria, "new love" feeling. Only on occasion do I feel like I'll even care if he leaves.

It's as if I suspect he will.

No matter how hard I try, I can not let my guard down. I'm not sure if I will ever be able to give someone the power to break my heart again. And maybe that's better. Maybe a heart can't be broken twice.

For someone who allegedly doesn't like to gamble, I sure seem to be doing a lot of that these days.

And it seems that I only engage in high-stakes ventures. I have always loved a challenge. Unfortunately, this time around, I am on a serious losing streak.

For the past three months, I've been hedging my bets in the professional world, to no avail. Recently, I've been wagering my personal life, too, with the same dreaded results. Just when I think I have a winning hand and that the cards are in my favor, the house rules.

I've been wondering why I even bother to take risks at all. In the midst of such a volatile market, wouldn't it be far easier to just take the safe road, at least until things stabilize a bit?

The problem with that rationale: the safe road is boring. Taking risks involves stepping out of one's comfort zone — something many people are afraid to do. This fear keeps many people from going for what they ultimately want, jeopardizing their happiness in the process.

I have never been one of those people, and I can't justify becoming one of them now, just because life has taken a rather rocky turn.

Imagine? YOU could take The Gold every time!

Inspired by the Olympics and delusional that I somehow can still get my body to look like those women's volleyball contenders, I was thinking...

There are so many things a divorced gal becomes proficient at by necessity — by herself — that there should be some way to get credit for it. Just maybe there should be some kind of Divorced Women's Olympics.

There would be global contenders.

Here are some divisions in which any one of you could take a medal:

Grocery Power Lifting

The Financial Balance Beam

She-Man Provider Competition

Single Mom Relay

Solo Wrestling With Yourself

Set the Table Tennis

Laundry Volleyball

Extreme Soul Searching

My favorite? The Divorce Decathalon!

"Heptathlon" actually is the proper word for the female version of this track and field competition, made up of these seven events: 100 meter hurdles, high jump, shot put, 200 meter sprint, long jump, javelin throw, and the 800 meter run.

As we all know, this sounds like a typical day BEFORE lunch.

The final event would be the "Late Life Luge"...jump on, hang on, close your eyes, say a prayer, take the ride of your life and hope you make it to the finish line in one piece.

The last one might take some extra practice but since you've got nothing to lose — you might as well Go For The Gold!

In my ongoing quest to spend a month happily living solo, I decided to spring for some fresh, fanciful fare.

I've just finished reading French Women Don't Get Fat. It seems the French drink a lot of champagne and that, somehow, ingesting quality ingredients keeps their women from over eating.

I scored beautiful local goat cheese at the Hastings Farmers Market and picked up a lovely pink Brut for under $40.

I don't usually drink alcohol while I'm alone, but I'm in survival mode and the kids don't get back until after Labor Day.

Popping the cork and pouring the Brut into a pink marabou martini glass, purchased at the TJ Maxx bargain rack, life seems sort of okay for the moment.

This was not a reward for spending a month in isolation. I don't need a reward, because I know that a workshop or trip to the Omega Institute is coming up.

However, I'm convinced that every night I spend alone is going to help me be a stronger person.

Admittedly, as I'm having these thoughts, there is a strong craving for a Valium or something else that will make me feel numb.

I used to feel desperate if I didn't have a man in my life. I still feel desperate, but when I compare the relative peace of my little blue house in Hastings to my married life in the mansion, with my over-the-top, angry ex-spouse, I'm satisfied with my decision.

But when I think of the things I gave up to be a hermit, I want to cry. Family and friends from the last 20 years are gathering on Fire Island this month to swim, laugh, and sail together.

Flirting with single guys, and sometimes even the husbands of my friends, chatting with the hunky lifeguards, and making the rounds to Saltaire, Fair Harbor, and Kismet were all part of my married life.

Feeling popular, rich, and loved seemed ingredients for a perfect life. But they're not.

Is the term "cougar" really that bad? As my FWW colleague Debbie Nigro points out, the term is used to “describe a woman who chooses to play/date/carouse/befriend a younger man.”

Debbie thinks the term is demeaning to women because it “makes it sound like older women are pouncing on innocent young men, when truthfully we are treating them” to our wisdom, experience, and an occasional expensive dinner.

“Neither side in this romantic pairing initially embarks innocently and without agenda,” Debbie wrote. “Both find it curious.”

Debbie, however, thinks there should be a new word and is offering radio stations, newspapers, and TV shows the opportunity to run a contest to find a better term. We’ll use their results and then take a national poll.

But here’s the thing: I like the term “cougar.”

First of all, at least men aren’t invoking another animal analogy, like “hog” or “rhinoceros.” A cougar is thin, feline, beautiful, and strong.

It’s also sleek, smart and pursues a wide variety of prey. Variety is always good especially when you’ve lived a life being loyal to one person who then either dumps you or disappoints you.

In fact, this cat has the greatest range of any wild, terrestrial mammal in the Western Hemisphere.

Note: Wider than the wolf.

It’s solitary and doesn’t need to stick around, like those herding animals. Nor does a cougar want to stick around, which, natch, makes them more appealing.

After last week's pity party, I came to the realization that I have been handling things all wrong. Instead of letting my current situation (of being an overeducated and unemployed professional squatter) take me down, I need to have a more Sisyphean approach.

The seemingly insurmountable obstacles can be broken down into simple tasks: I am to get up every day and put forth the effort look for a job for a few hours a day. Then move on to the next task: studying for the GRE.

Then I'll tackle research questions and design and polishing my writing samples.

After this task, I'll move on to the next, and to the next and to the next...until I get a job. Luckily, this will not be my fate forever — it only feels that way.

My biggest adversary throughout this process is myself. I overanalyze almost everything, and I'm too harsh when things don't work out my way. If ever I can figure out how to keep my inner taskmaster at bay, it will be smooth(er) sailing from that point on.

Something will come to pass from my diligence — I am too stubborn to be beaten by this.