I was in my early 40s, and my life was finally swinging into shape. I had a steady stream of work and warm, generous friends. But I had yet to find a viable, committed love. I kept falling for handsome artistic narcissists and their beautiful myths, while ordinary guys with decent looks, good jobs and kind natures simply didn’t register on my radar.

I thought a male therapist might help. A friend referred me to Ira.

Ira had alert brown eyes that brightened with interest when I spoke. We duly talked for hours on his generous sliding-fee scale about men and love and why it wasn’t working out for me.

I was afraid that all the well-adjusted, healthy men were already married. He insisted I shouldn’t give up.

O.K., I conceded, maybe there were nice guys out there, but I hadn’t seen any yet. My friends couldn’t come up with any, either. They tried to set me up with men whom they themselves wouldn’t have gone near.