For me, she shines brightest in a scene that snaps me back to the young woman I used to be, the one who still shows up to remind me how little time I have to become who I am supposed to be. Opera doesn’t do it for me either, and I only went to the ballet once because all the other mothers were taking their daughters to see for Christmas.

Life, she asserts, is what happens in between the beginnings and the endings - in the middle -and in the twinkling of an eye. I resent the aging process and the way it sneaks up on me at the most inopportune times.

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On a Saturday night, you can usually find me curled up on the couch watching my favorite TV show.

Instead of going to a bar or concert, my idea of fun is quite different.

If Mr Right cares about punctuality, he should probably know I have a stellar capacity for getting lost.

Although, with factory-installed GPS navigation systems de rigeur and knowing there is most certainly an app for that, I am much better today at finding my way around the greater Phoenix metropolitan area.

Online, I could be equal parts brainy and breezy; I could hide behind pictures that only show my good side, and I could deftly dodge questions with cryptic clues about what I did for a living and the kind of man who might be the right kind for me.

In a flurry of box-checking, I could filter out men who didn’t like my politics, my hair, or my taste in music and who didn’t care if I was as comfortable in jeans as a little black dress but did care about when and how to use “you”, “you’re” and “your”. Time to take stock of all I have accepted about myself, the “alternative facts” if you will.Yvonne Watterson with her partner Scott Henrich: ‘Even though I know you’re not supposed to have any expectations, I had prepared myself to be let down and lied to, but my instinct told me that the man at the bar was not going to lie to me and that I would not lie to him.’ Between the time I met my husband and the time he died 24 years later, the search for romance and Mr Right had moved online, a perfect place for me to spend time, my dearest friends urged.It would be fun, they said, a way for me to reintroduce myself to the world as the single woman I used to be in the days before smart phones and texting and instant gratification., instead of her Sally who had met Harry a decade earlier, around the time I immigrated to the United States. someday,” Sally is barely 30 and sporting a sassy hair cut that in 1989 should have worked with my natural curls. Some are minor - I don’t have sensible hair, and I spend a fortune colouring it and trying to tame it.Yes, my next chapter could be the stuff of a Nora Ephron rom-com. It gives me no pride to tell you that I subsequently carried in my wallet, for several years - maybe a decade - a page from a glossy magazine that featured Ryan’s many haircuts. Fonts matter in ways they shouldn’t - if I don’t like the lettering on a store sign, I won’t shop there, and Comic Sans on homework assignments forces me to question the teacher’s judgement.Sally was an extension of Nora Ephron - single-minded with a certain way of ordering a sandwich exactly the way it needed to be for her. For countless hairdressers rendered clueless and incompetent by the state of my hair, I unfolded that page as though it were the Shroud of Turin, while I beseeched them to grant me a Meg Ryan haircut. Seventy was out of the question - definitely not a new 50. Even though I recently found out that it’s bad for the car, I only buy gas after the “empty” light comes on.