So, when it comes to me and Internet dating, remind me to just say 'no.'

In two months on Match.com, I've had four dates. Two bad, two good, but none that blossomed. The bad ones included the sadly geeky computer tech and the short, baselessly arrogant staff trainer who claimed to be not only the company vice president, but an attorney (when in fact he does only pro bono work).

The good ones - a big-n-tall, nice-looking divorced dad who trained sales people in the pharmaceutical industry. Sounds dull? Perhaps, but his job included shades of mine, enough so that we had plenty to talk about. With him, there was an immediate sexual draw. I felt it the moment he stepped out of his truck, and knew he did, too. We had a pleasant meal at one of the best Italian restaurants in Denver, and at the end, he moved close to me in the parking lot. I knew he wanted a kiss, but I held back. He called several times after that and then ... he disappeared.

I think now it was perhaps just as well. I get into trouble with guys who ignite that immediate sexual spark because, well, inevitably, I sleep with them. Too soon. And fall for them for all the wrong reasons. This is a tendency I have yet to learn to correct. Thus, I conclude that I should avoid men I'm attracted to, yes?

Which was why I gave the fourth guy three dates in which to prove himself. He was smart, witty and not unattractive, but upon first meeting, I felt no spark whatsoever. On the second date, something sparked. I felt it the moment I saw him, an unexpected jolt of pleasure. During dinner, the conversation turned to politics, then still larger issues. And he began to rant about mankind, the shortsightedness of the world's decision makers, the environment, and then onto space.

I let him go. His eyes sparkled and he smiled as he spoke. He settled back in the booth, drew up a leg as though he were lounging on a couch and finally, ran down.

He radiated passion and intelligence, the attraction grew exponentially, and I felt my heart soften toward him. I hoped that night for a kiss. I got a hug.

He called the next day to say how much fun he'd had, to apologize for his ranting.

Then he asked me out again.

This time: Nothing. In fact, worse than nothing.

He had forgotten what I did for a living. Forgotten, too, not only whether or not I had a son or daughter, but that I had a child at all. I stared at him when he admitted this, stung by it and even more so, by what it revealed about his interest in me. I joked with him about it, trying to pass it off, but the tiny spark that was left sputtered and died.

Midway through our meal, he said, "We've established the fact we're just going to be friends, right?"

I nodded dumbly.

Then he told me about the Match.com women he'd recently dated: One that had recently confessed she was bisexual, another who'd told him she was sleeping with several other men. He shook his head. He didn't understand any of it.

"You haven't told me any of your latest wild dating stories," he said.

I shrugged. I had none. He was the only one I was still dating. And now, well, it seemed he wasn't a date after all.

What the hell, I let him pick up the ticket anyway.

He gave me a light hug in the parking lot. "See you in about a month?"

"Sure," I said, too confused to say any more.

I e-mailed him a few days later to say thanks but no thanks. I'm not looking for another friend, I said, and that I was surprised he'd forgotten the basic facts of my life. I complimented him for his wit and wished him well.

He apologized, said he'd thought we'd end up friends anyway, and that it had been fun meeting me.

I shut down my computer that night with a familiar sense of resignation.

What is it men are looking for? Not only this man, but the others on Match.com. My photo is good. My profile is, too. Lightly witty, honest, to the point. But it generates no e-mails, and I am tired of reaching out to try to draw them in myself. It has, overall, been hard on my always-fragile ego.

With Mark, I had hope. I figured the spark might return, that if it had been there on the second date, it could be back for the fourth and eventually, become constant.

But instead, Mark sat across from me last week, shaking his head in confusion over women who have disappointed him. So busy pondering it he forgot the woman with whom he shared the evening. He couldn't figure it all out. Neither could I.

A friend of mine has speculated that I perform poorly in one-on-one, high-pressure encounters like those created by Match.com. Perhaps she is right. There is something about me that doesn't translate in print and photos, something that even I, as a writer, can't manage to convey.

Apparently, it is only there live. Perhaps, as with Mark, it's the sparkle in my eyes that makes me shine brightly enough to be noticed.

Friday night, I joined the singles group at a downtown piano bar. The entertainers there invite audience participation. They sing bald and nasty songs. I laughed in from-the-gut, genuine delight, feeling lighter than I had in weeks. I was having fun. At evening's end, the gentleman next to me asked for my phone number. He is not what I consider my type, but if he calls, I will go. I will give it a chance.

And if he doesn't, that's OK, too. Because he gave me something that night, just by asking. He gave me back some of my confidence, the belief it took me years to absorb that I am attractive, something upon which Internet dating trampled.

On the bright side, I got four dinners, a lunch and several glasses of wine out of this round of dating. The service cost $50. I'd say I got my money's worth.

This morning, I went to church.

I know, I know. It's a miracle and all that. But while I'm not a member of any church, I do attend services with the local Unitarian branch and among my New Year's resolutions was one to attend more often. It's the end of January. I've been twice in 2007. Pretty good, huh?!

Like most Unitarian chapters, this one meets in a local elementary school. Unitarians are generally a homeless group, always hoping for a permanent structure but generally congregating in the gymnasiums of schools. The altar, really just a table with a pretty drape across it and candles atop it, chairs and song books are all packed away each week. Likely stashed in a members' garage, awaiting the next Sunday's services. The folding chairs upon which we sit are packed up and hung up by the congregation at the end of each service.

After years attending church in behemoths, bedecked in stunning stained glass, highly polished wood and sometimes marble accents - buildings that were artworks in themselves - I sort of like this temporary arrangement. I also like the fact that I am not a member, nor am I required to be. Membership, the requirement to belong, harkens back to my Catholic days. And though I feel connected and drawn to the Unitarian beliefs and the types of people it draws, I like this sense of being able to flit in and out, no strings attached, no one frowning upon you because of your refusal to conform.

That is why so many of us are there in the first place. We do not conform to other religions. We are not sure where we fit in. We are either misfits or proud rebels. Or something between the two.

At any rate, this morning I went to church.

Our regular pastor takes one weekend a month off. Today was that day and in her place, a visiting Presbyterian minister led the service. She was tall and regal in bearing, with silvery white hair and a pretty face. And she was furious.

Furious, she said, because she had dedicated her life to helping victims of slavery and those seeking to survive in the wake of genocide in the Sudan. She had helped to found a missionary group that brought these people food, water and medical help. She was furious, she said, because there were so few volunteers, so few trying to help so many.

"How is it," she said, "that we get so caught up in our daily lives that we forget about our fellow humans?

"How is it that what's on sale at Wal-Mart, or what's going on on 'Desperate Housewives,' is more important than that?"

Her eyes blazed.

As she spoke, photos of the people she'd met flashed behind her. They were no different than the ones you've seen on TV countless times. Black faces. Children. Men. Women. Some wretched, some angry, some who stared into the camera with distrust, others with pride. Then there were those who smiled, whose faces shone with a happiness that elevated them above their plight.

"Imagine," she said, "your 11-year-old son losing his toes to leprosy, and the sight of a dark line on his hand, the indication of another infection beginning. Imagine being helpless to stop it."

I did imagine. Or tried to. But I could not see Robby in such a situation. Nevertheless, I was on the verge of tears.

She introduced scenario after scenario, beginning them all with the word, "Imagine." As she went on, her voice rose with emotion.

I heard her words, saw the pictures she painted, understood her anger and felt ashamed of my normal, American life. My quest for happiness, my endless pursuit of a mate, the self pity I allowed, the tears I cried for myself on a soft bed, in a warm apartment, inches from a refrigerator packed with food, a working toilet, hot and cold water.

Yet, I felt anger stir within me for another reason. I felt angry with her for what I felt were her attempts to shame us into action, to make us hang our heads in self-disgust and do what Americans do best when seeing such suffering: Open their checkbooks and write.

This evening, my emotions remain mixed. I admire her passion and determination, not only to change things herself but to startle us into action, to make us look beyond our suburban lives to a world we could scarcely imagine.

And part of me understood. Because more and more often, I feel the need to do more, to make some sort of difference. I feel the deep-seated need I suspect we all have to focus on something other than ourselves, other than our families, to leave the world a better place than when we entered it. Perhaps this grows as we mature. At 62, she believes this is her calling. She believes she can change the world.

My strength falls short of hers. Or perhaps my personality is just different.

Part of the reason I took this seemingly strange job selling Medicare insurance was because it helps people, something big-city journalism seemed not to do. And hey, as I've discovered, the money ain't bad either. All of the reason I volunteered as a Depression/Bipolar Support Group leader was to give what I could to people whose pain I knew.

But on both these efforts, I fall short.

i question this job already at times because of its effect on me, the sadness that I see daily. Sadness that I often cannot just observe, but absorb. I've opted not to resume my volunteer work with the Depression/Bipolar Support Group here in Denver because I do not think I can do it, that my emotional bank is full by the work day's end. That I cannot absorb anymore.

I question, too, whether this way of thinking is correct, or whether I can lift myself up by continuing to give instead of retreating from it. I even question why it matters how I feel, that helping others is bigger than me. This, I think, is what today's Pastor Heidi believes.

Yet I believe, in fact am certain, that only healthy people can help heal the unhealthy. That we all must start with ourselves first, selfish as it sounds, before we can do jack for others. And that raising a child to be a compassionate adult is its own gift to the world.

Too, that like the smiling people in those photos, we're here to find joy in life, that sacrificing yourself is as much an insult to whatever creator we have as turning your back from others completely.

So for today, I'll do what I am best posed to. I'll get out a stamp and an envelope. I'll open my purse. And I'll write Pastor Heidi a check.

A year ago, I started this blog, aiming to bring some fresh air and humor into a life that had gotten a little too serious and sad.

The original intent was to do one thing a month I'd never done before. Things like those suggested in the "What Every Woman Should Do Once" pocketbook. Among them: Going blonde, kissing a man from every state, distracting an on-duty police officer, trying an extreme sport, driving to the airport and flying anywhere, publicly confessing something, forgetting what your mother would think.

The last is a no-brainer. I do it every day.

I got halfway through the year before you could say I faltered. I would say, instead, that bigger things began happening.

Of things on the list, I did these: Became a porn shop customer, went blonde for a night, confessed my bipolarism and quit that job I hate. That's four months out of 12. Not a great record.

But I vaulted into a whole series of other first, and sometimes, I wonder if the whole idea for the blog - trying fun, slightly daring stunts that make for great stories - led me to think big. To do the things that really changed my life.

No, I didn't kiss a guy from each of the 50 states. But if I kissed the South African at least 50 times, doesn't that count? He was, after all, from not just another state but another country! And he was cuter than snot, and a damn fine kisser, so surely that makes a liplock with him worth at least five with average, accent-less guys, does it not? Yes, the more I think about it the more I'm sure the African in himself covers all 50 states.

But the African's important for far more than his kisses. Which I WILL NOT think about right now. Damnit.

He's important because that was the first relationship I started and ended. I picked him out a crowd, won him over and, when it became clear my heart was in danger, walked away. Not the heartbroken victim, as has become a dangerous trend in my life, but a confident woman. My friend Tom assures me the African still thinks of me, and still desires me. I confess, this gives me tremendous satisfaction and a strange sense of pride.

But he's small potatoes, really, compared to the rest. I left the hated Gazette newsroom with a lie on my lips, telling them I was working for a marketing company. I did not tell them (or my mother) it was part-time, and on a three-month contractual basis with no certainty of renewal. It, partnered with another short-term contract, was all I had. It was my fire escape, and I grabbed it with relief.

With this shaky financial floor beneath me, I moved.

I became a landlord.

And a corporation: Reuter Ink. I was my own boss, responsible for my benefits, my retirement, my taxes, my vacation time, my financial stability. Yet I breathed easier in this new role than ever I did during those 18 months as a Gazette reporter.

And I had faith it would all work out just fine.

As it has.

Two months post-move, United Health Care snatched me up as though I were a jewel. It's been years since I have felt so treasured by an employer. How sweet it is.

These are the true markers of this past year. They are big and black with significance, impossible to miss.

Things are not perfect. I feel I have somehow let my son down in our inability to so far find friends for him in our new home. There's still a void in my heart waiting to be filled. We are not yet settled. There's a house out there somewhere waiting for us to step inside and call it home, the place into which we'll move in this new year.

If I can accomplish these things, the process will be complete. This life will have been completely transformed.

Could it really be because of the blog? I cannot say with certainty. But it's fun to think so. And if it is, then I have my friend "Tupper" to thank, who encouraged me to start it, who said she thought it'd be good for me.

I am hoping I can do half as much for her. So, just to her, I say: Those art classes, my dear, are not yet filled. Those new brushes? They're waiting to be held. And in a few months, my walls will be crying out for some brand new pieces.

Just a little motivation for you, Tupper. As you gave it to me.

The aging process has so far been good to me. At least I think so and really, isn't that all that matters for any of us? Friends may behind my back say, 'Wow, those wrinkles weren't there before. Jane's starting to show her age." As time marches on, these are the same thoughts all of us have had - c'mon, 'fess up - about our friends, particularly those we see infrequently.

But when I look in the mirror, the wrinkles on my face seem insignificant - noticeable but not to the point of detracting from my appearance. Finally, I've found an solution to lifelong acne, and a hairdo that I think looks classier and more controlled than any I've had to date. I weigh less and am in better shape at 42 than when I was 22. In my wee little brain, I believe I am more attractive now than I have ever been.

Except for my neck.

During the past year, I've noticed this ever-more-undeniable loose flap of skin under my chin. This is the first sign of aging that I consider unacceptable. In fact, it's the first sign of aging I've really even noticed.

Gray hair? Color it. Flabby muscles skin? Work it. Wrinkles? Recognize that most of them are the side effects of smiling. Moisture, then just go with it. My boobs? For once, being small is an advantage. There isn't enough there to sag. Even though they are painfully idle and woefully unappreciated, my girls look just as girlish as ever. Because I'm genetically programmed to be lean, cellulite is only a small annoyance. I'm lucky, I know, to have escaped these other indicators of change and aging.

But there are some things from which none of us can run.

And that's why this neck thing so alarms me.

I can't massage it, weight-lift it, Miracle-Bra it, moisturize it or color it away. It is a piece of me giving in to gravity. It is not small, like a wrinkle, or also like a wrinkle, something that can be charmingly categorized as "a laugh line."

It is only the beginning, I know. The other sections of skin are watching this first one, thinking, 'If she did it, we can, too!' Soon, they'll all relax and let go and my neck will resemble that of a turkey.

Nora Ephron writes about this in a new book called, "I Feel Bad About My Neck, and Other Thoughts on Being a Woman." I picked up this book at the library, strictly because of its title. Ephron notes that all her friends are now wearing turtlenecks or artfully draped scarves in an attempt to cover their wrinkled necks. She writes in a light, chipper style that I enjoy until she goes off into some tangent about a famous chef and celebrity dinners, at which point I became bored with it and returned it. She also wrote that she had inquired about plastic surgery for her neck, but was told the only way to remove neck wrinkles is to have an entire face lift - a costly and far more serious surgery.

Suddenly, I am watching women in a different way. I am looking not at their faces, their bodies or their bearing. I am scanning their necks for signs of droopage.

Nancy Pelosi has very little, which surely means she had some sort of neck - and face - work. C'mon, the woman is 60!

Cathy Sabine, longtime Channel 9 news babe, has some slightly relaxed skin under her chin. I somewhat suspect Cathy has had a bit of plastic surgery. She is even more beautiful than when she began with Channel 9, and has been around too long to look that damn good. Face work, but I think not neck tightening. I am grateful to her for leaving that part of her anatomy untouched.

For the first time last weekend, I noticed that the neck belonging to an ex-in-law of mine, only a few years older than me, has betrayed her, too, and to a far greater degree than mine. How far behind can I be? Like me, she is a divorced mother with no assistance from her ex-husband. I speculate that higher-than-average stress - the carrying of tension in the jaw - can hasten this whole ghastly process. Her older sister, for instance, happily married and with two A student sons, has a graceful, smooth neck. What other explanation for this difference can there be?

And how can I alleviate such stress and save my neck? Hell if I know but a drink seems a damn fine place to start.

Now that I've had a couple of drinks, I realize that the other solution, of course, is to lay down. A lot. Take the huge weight that is my mighty brain off my neck completely. Instead of sitting up to watch TV, I should slouch, or better yet, recline. In which case, I'll need a La-Z Boy. I should use the headrest in my car exactly as its name suggests. I should sleep more. Which unfortunately means exercising less, which could mean cellulite, flabby muscles and all those other signs of deterioration. Which is the greater evil? What's a 42-year-old woman to do?

None of this would seem so critical if I were not still "on the market." But until I snare a man, maintenance remains high. I am, as Terry McMilan so beautifully phrased it, waiting to exhale. Once the man's firmly in my grasp, my neck -- and all the rest of me -- can relax. You might call it bait and switch. But when you all meet him, please don't tell him that's my evil plan. Wait, at least, until the wedding reception.

Meanwhile, when next you see me, try not to stare at the weary tendons flapping sadly beneath my chin. If I have my way, you'll be far too distracted by new fashion sense to notice. Mostly because this contemporary touch will hide it.

Denver's adult education forum, Colorado Free University, is offering a class: "Tie One On: The Fine Art of Scarves," all about learning how to wear a scarf. I've always been intrigued by scarves, and admired those who know how to wear them. In the past, I figured these women were trying to make a fashion statement, to add flash to an otherwise unremarkable outfit.

Now I think I know the truth and will look more closely in the future. Those who wear scarves so well, and the women who'll be in this class, all are no less than 37. All have that slightly panicked look in their eyes, the realization that time is on their heels. I will be perfectly at home here.

I will sign up, I think, tomorrow.

For the moment, all this thought is making my head hurt. That or the half bottle of wine I've consumed while penning this intellectual heavyweight of a blog entry. Clearly, I should rest my head, think some more on this and buy my neck some time.

During a quiet, first-day-of-the-year walk on the bike path today, I met but one other person. The path, though plowed, is still almost entirely covered with snow and ice, outlined with banks of snow more than a foot high. Despite sunny skies and higher-than-expected temperatures, it was almost deserted - a little peace of heaven for my dog and I. She chomped on chunks of ice and shoved her snow into the deepest drifts, while I reflected back on a year that was not half bad and the unwritten pages of the one just begun.

The only other brave soul was notable from some distance. He was tall, balding and handsome, wearing a long-sleeved shirt, tennis shoes, high socks and shorts.

As we drew closer to one another, he looked up, nearly lost his footing on a patch of ice and smiled sheepishly. I could not help but comment on his attire.

"You're starting the year on an optimistic note, wearing shorts to hike, aren't you?"

He was almost past me, but turned his head and gave me a surprised, delighted grin.

"That's exactly what it is!" he said. "A euphemism for the new year."

Our paths had crossed for a second, and we separated again, each in our own direction. But I liked him immediately and well in that moment.

I wished I had done something so ridiculously symbolic, and was weirdly proud of myself for having picked up on his.

I looked around for other people who might be engaging in activities, rituals, displaying their hope for the new year.

A young black man waited to cross Lincoln Avenue, a McDonald's bag in his hand. This seemed unpromising indeed. Maybe it indicated his intent to live 2007 at a fast pace, consuming it with a voracious appetite. But judging by the sunglasses and the slump of his shoulders, it seems likely he was just hungover.

At the dumpster at my apartment complex, I met a woman taking out her garbage.

"This is the way to start a new year," she said, flinging the bags up and over the dumpster's high edge.

Nice, but not nearly as good as the man in shorts. Tossing the garbage of the old year is one thing; realizing new trash is about to accumulate another, somewhat depressing reality.

I started my first day of the new year without a hangover, in the company of good friends, my hands wrapped around a warm mug of good coffee and pleasant conversation flowing among us. Not a bad way to begin. I ended this first day with a date, in the pleasant company of someone new, hand around a glass of Pinot Grigio and pleasant conversation flowing between us. Not a bad way to end this first day either.

Still, not as good as the man in shorts.

I wonder a little about this guy, and ponder the idea that 2006 was a difficult year for him. If he divorced or lost a job. But his smile was too broad, I think, for that. Instead, I suspect - or just prefer to believe - this to be an annual rite of passage for him. That he's simply a good-humored guy who believes actions speak louder than words, and who marches into each new year with the same slightly goofy, brilliant optimism.

I wish for myself, and for all of you, that same sense of delicious expectation as this new year unfurls.

And I wish for the man on the bike path not only that his symbolic walk sets him down a positive path, but frankly, that he soon takes a beach vacation. Cute as he was, those legs were paler and more blinding than the virgin snow.