My German friend Sandra recently met a man who she’s seen twice in three months. After their first date, she was certain he was the one. When the guy didn’t follow up after the second date with an invitation for a third, she texted him incessantly. She showed up at the school where he works. She drove from <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />Hamburg to Berlin, a four-hour journey, allegedly to visit her sister. After the man said he wasn’t in town when she phoned to tell him she was there, she rode her sister’s bike around his neighborhood for an hour hoping to run into him. The guy finally gave her the boot when his roommate claimed to have seen Sandra peeking through their curtains, an accusation she firmly denies. <?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />
When she called me in the States to ask my opinion of the situation, I said, “Sandra, dollface. You do realize you’re stalking him, right?”
My friend was shocked. Sandra is prettier than Heidi Klum on a good day. She went to the Sorbonne. She teaches at the best university in Germany. She is a leader in her field and brings home serious bank. Sandra is not the stalker type. Surely, good-looking, smart, successful folk can be off their rockers just as dumpy, dopey slackers can be. But Sandra has always been the epitome of emotional calm and psychological might.
Until five years ago, when the guy she considered the cat’s meow dumped her right around the time she thought she’d be getting an engagement ring. The year following was tough, but eventually Sandra enjoyed singlehood, as did all the German fellas who’d been hot for her form.
But soon days passed, weeks passed, months and then years without Sandra finding herself in a romantic situation that stuck. More often than not, she spent weekends alone, went to restaurants by herself and slept in a giant, cold bed. Eventually, sh