A year ago we had vacationed together, sharing Gran Marnier and gossip while soaking up sun on the French Riviera. She had been a high-powered, well-paid independent female design engineer with a major corporation, driving the latest model 2-door Eldorado, playing golf with the big boys and jet-setting around the world. The voice on the other end of the phone, however, was not that of the person I knew. This was the voice of a changed woman. The shrill, high pitched voice intoning the virtues of giving up a profession she had invested 6-1/2 years in college preparing for in order to cook meals from scratch, watch PBS shows like Seaseme Street and Barney with stair-stepped toddlers and drive the innovative new dual-sliding door Dodge Caravan was certainly not the voice of the woman who had pinky sworn to me in grade school that we would never, ever become housewives like our mothers. Was she possessed?!

"Whoa. Back up a minute here. What is wrong with you?" I asked.

"Well, sweetie," she replied, "you have obviously never been in love."

Aha. Another convert to the Church of True Love chanting the mantra of motherhood and spouting the standard defense of their position - "love made me do it."

With every intention of singlehandedly rescuing her from the clucthes of this cult of love and excising the brainwashing that had her spewing this nonsense, I arrived on her doorstep immediately. A doorstep, which I might add, no longer required either a doorman or an elevator ride. It was now a gate through the quintessential white picket fence (gimme a break!) and a flagstone path to the front door.

I arrived well armoured in a chic Donna Karan shift complete with sheer-to-toe pantyhose and high-heeled pumps, adorned with elegant yet subtle gold earrings, necklace and bracelet. A small leather Coach purse, hanging casually over my shoulder, swayed back and forth sassily with each purposeful stride. My matching set of Hartmann luggage rolled behind me on the ever popular, and quite frankly, ever necessary personal luggage rack with wheels.

"Okay, I'm here. Let's talk." I said as I sat down at her kitchen table.

"I'm in love. What more can I say?" she replied.

Okay, so the direct approach wasn't going to work. This situation called for a more subtle and stealthy approach. I was up to the task. The first step was getting to know my enemy. "So, when do I get to meet this darling man?" I quipped.

Jack joined us for dinner that evening. He brought wine and flowers. He helped with the meal and the cleanup. Then fixed us drinks, put a little jazz on the stereo and regaled us with witty, intellegent conversion. We were each eager participants in a lively discourse. As Dawn breezily waved her hand in emphasis of some point, my eye was caught by the very tangible evidence of her baptism into the group of the loving. A one-carat marquee cut diamond engagement ring. How had I missed this before? I stared; transfixed by the sparkling diamond which seemed to be mocking me. "Well, isn't that a lovely ring." I said in defeat.

The entire trip lasted 5 days and 4 nights. Jack and Dawn remained in a perpetual state of giddiness. Every time I looked up, they were involved in some PDA (public display of affection). Life was good for them. And, to make matters worse, I could find no fault with this (dare I say it?!) wonderful man. There was no deprogramming done and, seemingly, no need for it. I left feeling confident in my friend's new found happiness. Yet, there was a nagging suspicion that although, I saw and acknowledged the rightness of this conversion for her, there was something about it that I just didn't quite truly understand.

Back at my penthouse condo, I stood alone amidst the luxurious trappings of my independent lifestyle and thought "Hmmm, maybe there's something to this love thing." Later, with champagne in hand, watching the twinkling lights of the city from the balcony of my highrise home, I thought "Naaaah . . . "