Dear Whatever-Your-Name-Is, I'm writing this to convince myself that you're out there. I really hope you're out there. Please be out there. Right now I am 14 and the Amazing Non-Dating Girl of my middle school.

This is all my parents' doing. I am not allowed to think about guys (the horror!) until I finish college. And maybe a doctorate.

But if, by some miracle, you find me before my oh-so-imperative education has run its course, my mom has consented to let me bring you home for dinner. She will make lasagna and ask where you go to church. My dad will wear his clergy collar, bleached extra-white for the occasion, and carry a pair of nunchucks looped through his belt. He will drill you on math, so come prepared.

My twin brother might enter with pictures of me in my “braces and acne” stage a few years ago – but only if he's feeling protective. If he's feeling normal, he will try to sneak the bright yellow whoopee cushion he got in his Christmas stocking onto a chair. Please be aware of this upon entering the house. If you sit on it, he won't stop laughing until dinner.

My younger sister, Angie, will be examining your clothing with the scrutiny of a New York fashionista, so don't mix your prints. Devin … well, it depends whether he's mad at me today, and what kind of extinct animal he's currently studying. You might see him, you might not. If you do, please refrain from making fun of his bad haircut. It's a sensitive subject among 11-year-olds.

Dear Whatever-Your-Name-Is, I'm only slightly exaggerating. I might not have to finish a doctorate before I can date.

I hope I didn't scare you off. Please don't get scared off. I've prepared you the best I can.