I knew from the get-go that Rebound Man was just that; not Mr. Right, but a perfect Mr. Right Now. A gentle reintroduction to the self I lost in marriage. You have to start somewhere.

The first kiss was just a gentle brushing of lips, the slightest embrace. But oh so nice.

“Could I have another one, please,” I asked.

A slow smile. The mutual acquiescence.

“If we keep this up, I won’t be able to walk out of here,” he said.

“What? It was just a kiss.”

“A kiss with intent to seduce. That constitutes sex in the first degree.”

Oh My Lord! Here I’d thought I’d lost my libido — turns out I was just looking for it in the wrong place!

In the beginning, being with Rebound Man was like opening a gift and finding exactly what I had hoped for. I loved regressing back to that state of inarticulate adolescence, nearly swooning from the sheer delight of fresh infatuation. Which is always my favorite part, before the hard work of a relationship.

But the rebound relationship is meant to be light, insubstantial, fun — like cotton candy. It has no nutritional value, and is fine in limited amounts, just enough to leave that sweet taste on your lips. It’s when you overindulge or try to take it seriously that you get into trouble: dip in, dip out, move on, be happy.

Not that I practice what I preach — even new habits can be hard to break. So I hung onto my rebound way past its expiration date, finally accepting that this relationship was just as lacking as my marriage had been. He too, could only offer just one piece of the puzzle, nothing more. Time to find a new game.

But it sure was fun while it lasted.

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.

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.

An old college roommate emailed me a notice about another classmate from our college alumni magazine. "Wasn't he a friend of yours?" she asked. "He certainly has done well for himself."

He was and he had. He had been the copy editor on our college yearbook; I had been editor in chief. We had been great pals, talking into the night over endless pitchers of beer, but had never gone beyond that. Which is pretty impressive for the 70s, I have to admit. I dashed off a quick email to say hello and was delighted 20 minutes later when I got a response: "Holy shit! I've always wondered where you were."

And so began a lovely email relationship. We talked about our college friendship, how he had always hoped it had been more. (Who knew?) We spoke of our failed marriages, our careers, where we were going.

After three months of increasingly, um, interesting correspondence, I decided it was time to quit pussyfooting around. A visit to the aforementioned roommate outside Washington DC was in order. That she just so happened to live a few miles from him — pure coincidence.

We met. He had aged really well, in a craggy Clint Eastwood way (more Fistful of Dollars than Million Dollar Baby). And as our lunch date stretched into the evening hours, it was clear we still had a lot to talk about.

We started to make plans to see each other again. He was definitely coming to visit in a couple of weeks.

But then he had to meet with his publisher about some changes to his next book.

And then there was the sailing competition he was in.

Then some nonsense about having to visit his sister.

I made the mistake of believing in what might be possible.

"Try Match.com," my divorced friends suggested. I was skeptical. I had tried the original computer dating back in college — only for the story, mind you, not to find dates — and hadn't been much impressed — with the story I ultimately wrote or the dates. The ensuing decades had done nothing to change my mind.

Call me picky, but I just couldn't quiet my inner writer when reading the profiles. Is there anyone who doesn't like romantic dinners and walks on the beach at sunset? Besides, my computer was too slow. By the time I downloaded the pictures, the profiles had totally turned me off.

But nothing ventured, nothing gained, so I tiptoed into Internet dating and created a semi-profile on Match.com (Nerve.com creeped me out too much — their sexual position of the day feature gave me the sense that this wasn't the place to find my true soul mate). Besides, I wasn't really looking for a date...but I wouldn't complain if I happened to find one.

And I did get some hits almost immediately, which progressed in short order to phone calls. And what I heard wasn't good.

One man told me he agreed to meet a girl without seeing her picture first and it turned out she was more like size 14 (not four as she claimed to be) and after five minutes of conversation told him she felt comfortable enough to tell him her secrets such as"...tried to kill myself at college...twice." Next!

Another man shared that he had been intrigued with a woman's picture and email exchanges enough to want to meet her in person. But instead of the recent law graduate he was expecting, waiting for him at their designated meeting place, was her mother, hobbling in on a cane. "But I looked just like my daughter when I was her age," was her reasoning behind posting her daughter's picture rather than her own.

Really — people lie about their weight and age?

Will somebody please help me?

I hate the word "cougar"!

We need to come up with a better word to describe a woman who chooses to play/date/carouse/befriend a younger man!

Don't misunderstand me — it's not that I am not a fan of this new sport. Seriously, if some young handsome guy thinks I'm hot and fabulous who am I to deter him?

Besides, divorced women in search of relationships often find that there are just more younger men swimming in the available love pool and in better swim trunks.

And quite frankly, the older guys who are chasing after centerfolds leave us no choice.

The word "cougar" just makes it sound like older women are pouncing on innocent young men, when truthfully we are "treating them" to the experience of wisdom and an occasional expensive dinner. Neither side in this romantic pairing initially embarks innocently and without agenda. Both find it curious.

Often it really does work.

Twice recently I was called a cougar — after being spotted amusing myself with a specimen a decade behind me. In both instances, to the surprise of the two people who thought they were giving me a compliment, I reacted with my usual, "I hate that word."

Personally I think the word is obnoxious, derogatory, and sounds almost sleezy. It makes me feel almost as uncomfortable as when I hear the word used for female private parts.

Could the same "naming" idiot be responsible?

Help me here. I'm all ears for a new word.

The new word is.....?????

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.