I’ve been married many times and mothered many children. I’ve walked down three aisles and ran headlong down another. I‘ve worn many wedding gowns, and endured labor with a husband Lamaze’ing by my side.

At age 60 I’d given up hope that I would ever find my One, or even sleep with anyone again, as I was so set in my ways. Because I’d lived by myself so long, I slept lightly. Discerning sounds of a neighbor being normal from a murder in progress was a survival skill.

In grammar school, I sit alone at lunch. I'm stuck at the end of the row at the auditorium assemblies, never near the middle where the popular girls sit. I'm chosen last for teams. I'm skinny. I talk too fast. I'm a little nervous. I'm a little Jewish. In art class, the other kids all spell my name wrong on our homemade valentines. I am unpopular.

When I was 14, Shauna Weisman discovered me doing the "Mashed Potato" at a sock hop and mirrored me, move for move. Shauna was a blonde 16-year-old Jewish American Princess with a Mustang, a big allowance and no curfew—all the advantages of a broken home. When I mirrored her "Watusi," she asked me to do a go-go routine at an event with her.

When I was 10, I was a total tomboy. Daddy had taught me how to throw and hit a ball, and I'd go to the sandlot for softball practice after school, so I could show off for the boys, especially for Eddie.

"You hit good for a girl," he said one time, as he tagged me out at first base.

For months, I'd been ignoring the straps dangling like lazy snakes from their confines and leaving my brassiere drawer ajar. I'd stuffed them all inside it when I tidied up for the handyman and strained to shove it closed.