Pick up any book, read any magazine, or watch any movie targeted toward single women, and you'll pick up a handful of tips on places to find a potential boyfriend: at sports bars, in the frozen food aisle, at closing time at the Laundromat. But they always overlook the man that could be right underneath you: the guy you accidentally brought home last weekend after a makeout session at the bar. Yes, the guy you spent the night with could actually be the one you spend your life with. It happened to me.
As with coding and management and matters of finance and marketing, relationships have a learning curve. You learn the basics of "relationshiptiva" (yes, I made up that word): How to deal with sexual etiquette, mundane everyday things, scheduling, and appropriate meetings with close friends, and some equitable plan for who's supposed to pay for dinner or wash the dishes this time. These are basics. And if you're learning them in your thirties, it's going to be much harder.
Sex doesn't have a uniform significance for all or even for one across encounters and partners. It's an existentially amorphous act. Beyond the imperative to procreate, sex has no inherent meaning. We construct the meaning. This is what makes it interesting. It's fluid, and as we change, so does the allegory of our sex.