Karen Carpenter is stuck in my head.

This is not a good thing.

For one thing, she's dead. Technically, by her own hand. Which lends a negative connotation to her music.

For another, most of the Carpenters' singles are not particularly cheery to begin with. Case in point: “Rainy Days and Mondays,” the song that's snaking around in my head. For the moment, it fits me as snugly as spandex, right down to the “talking to myself and feeling old” part.

There are several reasons for this temporary case of the blues.

The contract that would have released from this hell hole in which I work has fallen through. I know there's a light at the end of this career tunnel, but it's temporarily hidden around a corner or two, on a detour I have yet to find.

Another particularly good friend has decided to take a job out of state. A great opportunity for her both personally and professionally. But her step forward shrinks my social circle – from which friends recently have fallen like dominos – ever smaller.

Mostly, however, I think it's loss of another sort. Loss of what turned out to be an elaborately spun pipe dream.

It's hard to let someone out of your mind who took residence there for two years. His absence - or the sudden cold reality that the relationship never was - leaves a void. We all want someone special to think about. Mine is gone.

It's reawakened my long-muted hunger for a relationship, setting my emotional stomach to growling. Loudly. There's an empty space here, it says. Do something.

A fudgesickle muffles it. A drink or two muzzles it. A sleeping pill silences it. Pieces of duct tape on a failing dam.

The drive to pair off is instinctual, and Mother Nature won't be denied. She is persistent and relentless, which likely is why so many of us get into relationship trouble. We're answering the call. Sometimes too quickly, sometimes blindly, sometimes only because the thought of being alone is more than we can bear.

I like myself too much to settle, a textbook-perfect assertion that makes me sound incredibly strong. In large part, that's true. But there's more to it than that. Anyone can see that I'm scared.

The past three serious relationships have ended badly; one in divorce, one as a break-up that eventually sequed into friendship, the third - and toughest to swallow - suddenly and with no explanation. It's an apparent pattern no one wants to see. And no matter how much analysis you give it, it shakes your confidence. It makes you question your own lovability.

So I'm scared, but not so much that I won't try again. We gain nothing unless we step into the fire and open ourselves - warts and all - to someone we believe will love us anyway.

Sometimes, we're wrong. A mistake that's stunningly painful.

The real shame is if we let that miscalculation burn so deeply that we retreat to the shadows, and, safely distanced, do no more than watch.

That's where I am right now. But it won't last. I trust my instincts, and they say to give it another go.

They say he's out there. Maybe in someone I already know. Maybe in someone whose hand I won't shake for years to come. Meanwhile, fudgesickles are on sale at Albertson's. I'm stocking up.