Twice as Nice

My blind date with Dan was so much fun that I smiled my way onto the commuter rail at the end of the evening. I must have looked approachable, because the seat next to me was soon taken by Phil, a fellow teacher every bit as cute and charming as litigator Dan. Within minutes, we discovered shared literary tastes and three mutual friends. As the train rumbled into my stop, Phil suggested getting together in a non-locomotive setting.

We did, and I had a great time. Then Dan called. Then Phil called again, and I was sailing into uncharted waters: not because simultaneous dating is new or radical, but because it seems to have been abandoned in recent years - at least among my friends - in favor of the dating equivalent of serial monogamy. You meet someone, and if you like that person, you see where "it" goes. If you don't - or they don't like you - you meet someone else and repeat the process.

Simultaneous dating used to be the norm. When my mother was dating in the late 1960s, she usually went out with Bob on Friday and John on Saturday; the next weekend, the order on her dance card might be reversed. The gents, too, had their Carols and their Nancys. Dates were about more than determining chemistry; they were also about the concert or the party.

Maybe it's changed because so few people invite each other to specific events; instead, we ask "you wanna get together sometime," which forces the other person to render judgment on us, rather than decline or accept a particular invitation. Or maybe it's the Internet, which encourages us to make up our minds quickly about Bostonhottie1975 so we can go on to meet the millions - millions! - other singles out there. But when I asked my friends how long I could ethically date two guys without alerting each to the other's existence, no general understanding emerged. Responses ranged from "until you sleep with one of them" to "until you kiss one of them" to "until you find yourself treating them in a way you wouldn't want them to treat you."

My mother says that dating is harder for my generation because nobody agrees on the rules, and she's right. My friends spoke with great conviction - one quoted Confucius, and another referenced the Talmud - but I was left with only one certainty: I wanted to see Dan again and I wanted to go out with Phil again, too.

So in the space of about three weeks, I had several dates with each. To my surprise, I found myself pleasantly unencumbered by the where-is-this-going mindset that is so often a hallmark of dating in your 30s. I'd expected to fret over which man I preferred, but it was just the opposite. Instead of treating each date as an audition, I treated it as no more or less than what it was: time spent sharing a meal or counting stars with people whose company I enjoyed.

And I discovered that dating - even dating in your maritally eligible years - really can be fun if it's not too goal-oriented. You can go to spiffy places. You can dress up. You can get tingly feelings in your toes while sharing an ice cream cone and not immediately discuss whether to raise the children Jewish or Zen Buddhist.

So here's how this story ends. After a few weeks, Dan disappeared into a deposition from which he has yet to emerge, while Phil and I decided we would be better off as friends, and just like that, my rather delightful romantic dilemma was over almost as fast as it began. If it had not resolved itself, I don't think I could have comfortably dated both men much longer - certainly not with any degree of intimacy. But for a while, it was a great confidence booster. It reminded me that being single is not necessarily a life stage to be rushed through on an express train to the altar.

At the moment, I don't have a surfeit of men in my life. But I feel like with a little bit of luck - and a few more smiles on the commuter rail - it could happen again. After all, the train runs to Boston 17 times a day.

Alison Lobron lives in Concord. E-mail comments to mailto:coupling@globe.com.