In
the years since graduating from college and embarking on a career
flagged me as ‘unmarried’ rather than just ‘single,’
all the married people I know have developed a well-intentioned
tendency to set me up with total strangers. These matches are generally
wildly inappropriate, based solely on the criterion that both of
us are, well, unmarried, and therefore itching to settle and pop
out infants with someone—anyone.
I know that everyone encounters this shoddy matchmaking to some
extent, but my genuinely eccentric and delightful mother has developed
a passion for it, assembling a crack team of chatty friends to serve
as my personal, misguided dating service. I realize that The Squad’s
efforts are an attempt to end my (sporadic, hormonal) lonely whining
and save me the supposed time and hassle of sorting through the
dating pool, but they overlook the fact that much of the pleasure
of dating is in the journey, not on the ring finger.
Every time I pick up the phone at my parents’, some darling
middle-aged woman launches into detailed endorsements of every bachelor
she has met since our last conversation. The Squad has, apparently,
been instructed to take note of singles they run into at social
gatherings, and the really helpful ones even come over with stealth
photos, ‘action shots’ taken from across crowded rooms,
which they pass around and squint at while imagining what the children
would look like. Thank goodness for discreet point-and-shoots. I
have also been invited to more parties than I’ve been to in
years, and at least one young man, always fresh from professional
school, is always present. My mother’s love of throwing dinner
parties has been renewed as well. Once every six weeks or so I am
summoned home to help her prepare, and then she instructs me to
‘be nice’ to the featured guest, who is always a young
unmarried man, and always ‘shy’ or otherwise needing
my full attention.
At the last party my parents had, I was told that in attendance
would be a family that had lived down the street until I was 8 and
then moved away.
“The whole family is coming. They had a boy your age, remember?”
said mum breezily, handing me a pile of plates.
I started setting the table and chose my words carefully.
“Um yeah, the one that looked like a monkey?” Not enough
to deter her.
“Tsk. The one who’s a neurosurgeon now.”
“I hope he shows up with smaller ears and a nice rock.”
“Dahling, just please be nice, he’s shy and doesn’t
know anyone else here. You always say you want to meet a nice boy,
so take care of him, make sure he has someone to talk to.”
Our budding romance died an instant death when The Guy rolled up
in a new Mercedes with his whole damn name on the vanity plate.
I shoved my brother outside to welcome him, gave him firm instructions
to stay by his side all night, and ran in to hand out canapés.
Soon I felt a tap on my shoulder, winced, and turned around to find
myself face to face with a taller monkey than I remembered. Hoping,
for the sake of my evening, that his personality would win me over,
I launched into small talk. Sadly, I don’t remember a thing
he said, because none of it was at all interesting. He was very
polite, though, and had an excellent credit rating. After all, girls,
looks fade, but the savings of the fiscally responsible won’t.
Cleaning up after everyone left, my mother asked what I thought
of him. I told her honestly, heard the usual rant about me being
overly picky, which she always concludes with “We’re
never ever going to get rid of you.”
I know she doesn’t mean it, and fancies herself a comedienne,
but that annoys me and fully deserves a cheap shot in return.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” I said, all concerned eyes and
regretful tone. “If it’s that important to you I’ll
go out with him some time. I mean, maybe our kids would get my ears.
And nose.”
She stood there quietly for a moment, letting my words sink in.
“No, no, don’t worry about my feelings. Forget him,
he wants to live in Canada anyway.”
“I don’t know, he was actually really nice. Smart too.
Maybe he was just shy.”
“NO MONKEY-LOOKING BABIES.”
And that was finally that.
I don’t mean to dismiss the idea that some people are capable
of setting up their friends and family, with pleasant results. Bona
fide matchmakers, however, realize that some effort needs to be
put into selecting people who would be true matches. Haphazardly
attempting to set a friend or relative up with someone entirely
inappropriate indicates that you think of them as desperately lonely
and thankful for any morsel thrown their way. In fact, many singles
actually enjoy the quest for romance. Many of us lead rich, full
lives, and manage to meet enough characters to keep us interested
and hopeful. But even the best of us have proclaimed in a dark moment
that we are going to die lonely, which alerts those who aren’t.
They subsequently try to pair up everyone available, instead of
just rolling their eyes and changing the subject. It’s as
though, after years of familiarity with each other, established
couples have forgotten about all of the flirting and mystery and
miscommunication and sparks and awkwardness and longing and arguments
and great moments that marked the commencement of their own love
stories. They need to be reminded that, no matter how much we complain
sometimes, maybe we secretly wouldn’t mind muddling through
on our own. A2P
Email comments to girlonlove@annarborpaper.com
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