It doesn't happen very often, but once in a while, I fall in love. It happened gradually over the last month, and last night, I realized I was head over heels.

I haven't been blogging often because I haven't been feeling mentally on top. In fact, I've been feeling like shit. None too inspired to write, none too eager to broadcast the return of nasty feelings.

In a search for remedies, I abandoned my newly acquired paperback about a 38-year-old woman who retreats to find the meaning in her life, to understand why she has always seen her value in other people's eyes, why she clings to people she loves - even though they do not love her in the same way - and to society's rituals and expectations. In short, I kept thinking as I read, why she is so beautifully human.

I realized the book was making me sad, so similar were her comments to my thoughts. Seeing them in print made me feel common. And we all want to feel special, even in our misery. So I exchanged it for the newest novel from Alice Hoffman. Her books are typically about the magic of the human experience, sprinkled with elements both sadness and surprises. Magical, as I said. The thing we all seek and are all so amazed to sometimes find. The thing that happens, I am convinced, if we only believe that it will.

I surfed the TV for something light, too, and landed last night on Comedy Central.

And there he was. My new love. Jon Stewart, host of the Daily Show.

Jon Stewart has, I guess, been around for years. You may laugh to know that while I may have heard his name, I never knew who he was, or really why he was famous. About a month ago, I caught him in an interview with the host of some random talk show. He was like all of the men I've fallen for lately: Whip smart and intelligent with deadly wit and good looks.

I watched the interview until the end and realized I was disappointed when the credits rolled. But that, I told myself, was that. I wasn't interested enough to find out when the Daily Show aired. TV is not my bag, you see. It's the computer that holds me hostage.

Then, last night, he blasted into my living room. Host of his own show. A pitifully short half hour wrap-up of the day's news, relayed Saturday Night Live style (which I vaguely recall is where he began).

Jon Stewart delivers it with effortless comedic mastery. It is a hurricane of humor wrapped around kernels of fact, awash in conservative smashing and Bush bashing - things which bring me joy in even my darkest hours - with a few jabs directed toward extreme liberalism.

The humor thawed a little misery. But it wasn't just that. Jon Stewart's face - like Jerry Seinfeld's - made me feel good. Something Leno manages irregularly and Letterman manages not at all. I admired the ways he delivered comedy - with frequent flashes of his dimples, a dance of the eyes, the arch or drop of an eyebrow, a dead stare. More said without words than with them. I liked that he looked to be my age, just slightly jowly and graying at the temples. I was entranced by his interview with John Kerry, and the way he laced serious, pointed questions in among the humor. It was, in short, a delicious experience.

Jon was back in my apartment tonight. I was finishing laundry at the time, which meant leaving the building to unload the dryer at the laundry facility down the sidewalk. Idiot, I thought. From now on, I would time these mundane events for non-Daily Show time. I waited for a commercial break, ran to the laundry building, stuffed clothes into bags and ran back in record time. Jon smiled at me. The clothes and sheets wrinkled as I dropped them on the floor and sat on the couch to watch.

Unlike most men who've crossed my path, Jon is reliable. He'll be there for me, every night at 9 p.m., warming my heart and lightening my mood. And while he's not as dashing, there's another man waiting in the wings for me when Jon leaves for the night: Stephen Colbert.

Watch and see. But don't be seduced by him. Remember, he's my man.