Confessions of a Love Doctor

by By Sherry Amatenstein

Carrie Bradshaw, I strode to the front of the classroom and asked the nervously giggling, mostly fashion-challenged crew what they hoped to gain from the evening. The first answer, “Help! As soon as women look at me, they run for the hills,” aroused my sympathy. The second, “I want to see what chance I have if I leave my wife,” did not. I suggested to the would-be adulterer that marriage counseling might be a better option.

One of my acolytes was kinda cute, funny even. Why was he here? If only he would ask me out. But wait—that was why he was here: no guts.

Quickly, I donned my “expert” cape. “You see, gentlemen,” I lectured, “it’s not about putting on an act, but about being yourself.” They looked at me like I’d cracked open the Holy Book.

Sherry, the false prophet. So unable to help myself, could I truly be helping others?

Mired in self-doubt, I decided that one way to gain legitimacy was to write a book. Publisher after publisher turned down my proposal for a romance-advice tome. Where were my credentials? My new job at a women’s Web site wasn’t a suitable substitute for a degree. Undeterred, I wrote a proposal for The Q & A Dating Book, which had me posing questions to “real” experts and choosing the best answers. In an ironic twist, the publisher who finally made an offer (sufficient for a few Frappuccinos) demanded that instead of soliciting advice, I answer the questions myself: Otherwise, my book would seem like an anthology. The “expert” classification was proving impossible to shake.