Co-Worker: It's easier to be killed by a terrorist than it is to find a husband over the age of 40!

Annie: That statistic is not true!

Becky:That's right; It's not true ... but it feels true.

-- Scariest scene from the movie, Sleepless in Seattle

What are the odds that a woman over 40 -- who also happens to be the mother of two kids on the autism spectrum -- can find love? I often think I'm more likely to find Osama bin Laden hiding in my son's adult diaper bin.

After my divorce from my chemically-dependent Talking Turd of a wusband back in 2003, I started dating again. Oy. My first suitor dumped me after he met my kids for the first time and decided he wanted absolutely nothing to do with them. And then there was the relationship that ended with me filing a restraining order to stop the guy from stalking my every move.

Two years ago, I swore off dating altogether. I spent that time examining my 27-year history with men, trying to figure out how a smart, vivacious woman like me kept making such stupid, life-sucking choices. I realized that I had never really given love a chance. I entered relationships assuming that they had expiration dates. I figured it was just a matter of time before a man's interest in me was crushed under the weight of my baggage. Or, I leaped before I looked, dating men I wasn't even sure I liked. I figured if the man liked me, that was good enough. Of course, that "beggars can't be choosers" policy meant I got involved with men who didn't like children, or who didn't share any of my interests, or who were, um, crazy-assed stalkers.

Well, I've decided that I'm done with expiration dates. I've had it with kissing toads. I'm embracing my inner forty-something princess. Yes, folks, I am NOT going to let the terrorists win anymore!

Which may or may not explain to you why I recently donned my wedding gown (it still fit, thanks to a generous A-line cut that would have allowed me to smuggle several bridesmaids under my skirt) and then crashed a major public gathering. It was my first act of conceptual performance art, all in the name of love.

I was trembling when I walked up to a total stranger and said to her, "You look like someone who has something to say about love. Care to offer your wisdom today?" And I held out a bouquet of multi-colored Sharpie markers, welcoming her to write her sage insights on my 19-year-old white-satin-and-Alençon-lace dress.

At first, people were shy (or perhaps just afraid of the creepy wedding dress lady), but before long, throngs were coming over to me, unbidden. It was an amazing experience. One man got down on both knees and wrote, Love is a huge bunch of dahlias. Then he turned to his spouse and said, "Stay right here." A few minutes later, he returned and gave his wife a big public kiss and *sigh* an overflowing bouquet of freshly-picked dahlias.

Another woman, tears glistening in her eyes, wrote, It can last 37 years. Thanking me for letting her commemorate this, she told me that her wonderful husband had died just a month earlier.

At one point, two people were writing Sharpie comments on my skirt, and they had me totally pinned in place. When I looked up, I realized that I was face-to-face with my stalker. Our first encounter in four years, and I was stuck there. In. My. WEDDING GOWN!

AAAAAAAAW-kward.

"G" was as stunningly handsome and emotionally unstable as I remembered him. Back when I ended my relationship with "G", my life was in crisis: one son was having uncontrolled seizures and serious mental health difficulties; the other was showing the first signs of his OCD; and my wusband was in a drug relapse and threatening bankruptcy. I told "G" I needed space. "G" responded by following me everywhere in his car, calling me at two a.m. to propose marriage, and finally lying prostrate on my driveway on Christmas morning, refusing to leave until I took him back.

Seeing "G" was a breathtaking moment of revelation for me. I said hello to him, wished him well, and, as I walked away from him, I felt hopeful. I felt like I was finally walking from my own self-destructiveness.

Two years and one random act of performance art later, I'm still skeptical that a special needs mom like me will ever marry. But every time I look in my closet, my graffitified wedding gown helps me believe that I am finally brave enough to risk loving and being loved.