First time readers, kindly read the first entry for October 27, 2012, when this story began: 

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                 The parade of horribles marched relentlessly through my head as I sorted through my closet.

                 Dentures, a comb-over . . . a toupee.

               "Love" and "hate" tattooed on each of his fingers.  The words "hot" and "cold" in red and blue ink above his nipples.

               Red toenail polish and photographs of his doll collection.

               I realized I was hyperventilating and sat down on the edge of the bed, a mist of cold sweat beginning to appear on my brow.  I flinched when the phone rang.

               "Are you getting "all dolled up?"  My friend, the marathon runner, rock-climber and hang-glider asked, cheerily.

               She'd generously . . . and wisely, offered to take my picture with her digital camera, so I'd have one with a date emblazoned in fluorescent yellow along the bottom to provide when asked for a recent photo.

               "Just a head shot," she'd insisted.  My date hadn't told me when his photo was taken.  Hence my anxiety.  I forwarded the photo without asking  if she thought my ears looked big.

               "You're not wearing those grey slacks again, are you?"  she asked, but before I had a chance to answer, she said, "I told you to buy a pair of knee high boots."

               She's only the second person to make this recommendation; the clerk in the thrift store where I bought an ankle-length straight black skirt for $2.97 had given me the same fashion advice.  I wasn't about to admit to my very buff and very stylish friend that I'd given away my lovely new boots a year earlier to a friend's daughter and now couldn't afford to replace them.

               "No slacks, this time, but I'm wearing opague tights.  And a chastity belt."

               "You won't need the chastity belt if you're wearing opaque tights," she said, dryly.  "Where are you meeting him?"

               "A place downtown.  I told him I'd have one glass of wine, since I'm driving."

               I imagined her rolling her eyes skyward and shaking her head.

               "You're meeting him for one glass of wine.  At 7:30 p.m."

               "That's the time he suggested," I replied.

               "And he's going to ask you to his house to see his etchings after one glass of wine," she drawled.

               I resisted the temptation to remind her about the time she'd she'd fallen out of her CFM shoes onto her face.  Slacks had been a good wardrobe choice for her that night.

              "Gotta go," I said.  I'll let you know how it goes."

               The phone rang again.  Another friend, who's been married longer than she was single, called to "wish me luck."

                 I really wish my friends would stop trying to back-seat drive my love life . . .

               "What are you wearing?" 

               I was tempted to say, "Not that it's any of your business, but I'm wearing a thong." Instead I repeated the description of my ensemble I'd given earlier, omitting the chastity belt reference. 

               "I think that's perfectly appropriate," she said.

               After I hung up, more frightening images coursed through my head.

               A purple water-based felt tipped marker is handed to me.

             "I've just invented this game.  We get naked and take turns connecting each other's liver spots to form our favorite constellations."