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Expert, n.: a person who has a comprehensive or authoritative knowledge of or skill in a particular area. Or, someone who says they do.

Much to my amusement, I’ve been the “expert” on a variety of subjects (including Paris Hilton, presidential politics, American Idol and the Wii) about which I possess little expertise—much less “comprehensive or authoritative” knowledge. I’ve never even seen the Wii, dammit! 

I’ve also been called a relationship expert. This, on the other hand, I am.

With no formal qualifications—as one ex said, “It’s not like you passed a bar exam for sexperts”—can anyone do this? In a world where a heavyset man (Dr. Phil) gives diet advice and an old woman (Dr. Ruth) opines on sex, it’s  funny anyone bothers with a pesky little thing like “credentials.” Lots of people consider themselves dating experts. Just yesterday a cab driver gave me an unsolicited lecture on love, including unique suggestions for where to meet “zee seengle meeen.”

While I never turn down free advice, however random, true relationship expertise requires more than being a regular Dr. Drew listener. It’s one part sociology, two parts psychology, a dash of anatomy and physiology, a lot of experience and the desire to think through human relations for hours. (Bonus if one has few inhibitions, no tact, and is willing to never be taken seriously outside of Harlequin conventions.)

“A relationship expert is someone who has learned about love through experience and not in a classroom,” says dating coach Matt Titus. “Someone who’s been through many romances, grown from the good ones and learned from the bad.”

Absolutely—and as my mother says, “Well, you certainly have been around the block a few, uh, dozen, times.” (Thanks, Mom!) It’s not just about the trips, though, it’s really about what you pick up on the way. Being a relationship expert is like being any kind of expert; you do your research—both of the bookish sort (real scientists study this stuff!) and, by gathering the anecdotes of others, analyzing them, contrasting them, and coming to conclusions.

That doesn’t mean I always have the answers—yep, even I sometimes have no idea why he didn’t call. Odds are he probably just wasn’t that into me. See? Who’s the expert now?!?

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At the beginning, I found it romantic—the wine, the candles, the very tiny artichokes in our salads. But after a while, the meals started to blur together. And then, I realized I had not only gained 15 pounds (a solid 15 pounds), but the very idea of ordering $28 salmon made me long for a sandwich from my deli and a night alone with my TV.

I had overdosed on dinner dates. I’m still detoxing, in fact. And I’m not the only one.

“Taking me somewhere fancy and knowing how to order wine used to blow my mind,” says Rachel, 34, a lawyer. “But alas, I’m now spoiled.”

For most Manhattan women, a year or two of being “dinner whores” gets it out of their system. It’s not that the food isn’t good—it is! And it’s not that we don’t like to eat—we do! It’s that it’s boring. Mind-numbingly, calorie-poundingly, unimaginatively, tediously boring.

“There are only so many dinners you can go on before the repetition—appetizer, entrée, wine, should we get dessert?—kills your soul,” says Meghan, 25. “The best date is when you’re actually doing something.”

You know, a walk in the park, Rollerblading, trapeze class. There are plenty of fun activities that don’t involve napkins and gratuity.

“I think most men are just unimaginative when it comes to dates,” explains Adam, 38, an entertainment executive. “They forget there are options other than $50 macaroni and cheese at the Waverly Inn. Besides, no one wants a girl to think he’s cheap!”

Ah, Adam. If you really want to stand out, buy her shoes. Seriously. Shoes. I’ve gone on hundreds of dates, and on 99 percent of those outings, the guy spent a great deal on fancy food that probably gave me indigestion. You know, I can’t even remember, actually, since they’re all part of the jumble of my romantic dining memory. But there’s one date I’ll never forget: He took me to Barneys and surprised me with a pair of black suede Manolo Blahniks. It wasn’t so much that they were expensive; it was that no one had ever done that for me before (or, cough, since). They were the cost of two or three fancy dinners, but I still wear them three years later. I wore them today, actually.

And the guy? He will live on in my heart.  And yes, my feet.

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To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time, by Robert Herrick

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying:
And this same flower that smiles to-day
Tomorrow will be dying.

I'm not usually one for quoting 400-year-old poetry, but I have to give it to Herrick – he knew whereof he spoke.  Except for that whole "virgin" part (and, well, the use of "ye"), seizing the romantic day is about as modern a sentiment as anything – particularly in Manhattan on the cusp of summer.

Although I've been a dating columnist for five years now, this is the first spring I've been sans boyfriend in that entire period.  It’s been, to say the least, quite the adventure. Not because I've gone home with so many men – I haven't (no really, I haven't) – but because, dammit, I could have!  And therein lies the gem of being single: possibility.
 
Delicious, unreserved, completely guilt-free, incredibly sexy possibility.
 
In I Feel Bad About My Neck, Nora Ephron wrote that if she had known then what she knew now, she would have put on a bikini and not taken it off for the entire year she was 26.  That's the kind of attitude we should all apply to our dating lives – since, as inconceivable as it may seem to all my miserably single friends, statistics indicate that we’ll all be married and spoon-feeding infants someday. So stop complaining and embrace a state of unself-conscious exuberance, open-minded anticipation and untapped potential.
 
This means potential not just in the traditional, girl-meets-boy-on-rooftop-bar, boy-woos-girl-in-Hamptons, girl-plans-NYT-wedding-announcement way – c’mon, we announce things on blogs these days! –  but in the the-future-is-mine kind of way, which may lead to questions of what-do-you-want-to-do-for-breakfast or even Co-op-Condo-or-Jersey.  And then again, maybe it’ll lead nowhere at all ...

The thing about potential is that it's sometimes best left unrealized. Looking, flirting, even a little making out: harmless, carefree, unmessy. When you swap spit with a stranger in a dark bar after a long night out there's only visceral and voyeuristic satisfaction (look at me! I'm making out!), there's no promise of an awkward dinner to endure, no disappointingly obtuse text message conversation to decode, no last dash to Duane Reade for an EPT.

A marauding band of "kissing sluts" — those who make out freely and frequently, with no strings attached—swarming the city.  “Kissing, as a rule, is not a stereotypically slutty activity,” says my friend Courtney, 25, a banker, “so you can get away with a lot of it, with various different people, sometimes all in the same night – and that’s hot.”

It’s been a long, lingering winter – spring and summertime friskiness should be appreciated in all forms – and being a kissing slut is a fine way to do it.  Sure, it could lead sex on a park bench (or on the Jitney!).  But it might just lead to sharing French fries in a downtown diner at 5 am.  And the irony there – or perhaps the beauty of it – is that of the two, the fries could easily be sexier.
 
We like to think that we can't share extraordinary moments without obsessing about whether they'll morph into a full-blown relationship.  Of course we can! Romance exists everywhere – and the courtship dance can still be heady even if no actual 'ship occurs.  This summer, allow yourself to be exhilarated. Gather ye rosebuds, bitches.

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