Meeting Mr. Right
It's a Wednesday night at the height of summer, a beautiful time of year to embark on a new venture, or so I like to tell myself. As I fuss and fumble with the curling iron, my carefully applied makeup is sweating off with the effort to style my hair just right—feminine but not too sexy. I've chosen to wear a green floral halter dress, bought for another occasion but not yet worn. It seems ideal for my first ever matchmaker date. I put on my flats to finish the look. I've never seen the man who's arriving at my door in mere minutes, so I can't be sure if he's taller than me.
I've spoken to the gentleman on the phone just once. He seems respectful, engaging, interested. Yet a few of his more pointed questions make me nervous. It's his prerogative; he's paid a good deal of money to a matchmaking service that helps successful, well off men meet the women they're too busy to find themselves. He has a vested interest in making sure I'm the right kind for him. Yet three of his questions have stuck in my mind: How is my relationship with my father? Why did my last relationship break up? And, my favourite by far, why have I never married? How could he possibly know that my fear of dating is grounded in not having the right answers to these questions?
So why exactly am I, at 48, travelling down this awkward road in an attempt to find the man of my dreams?
In my twenties and thirties, I just fell into relationships; I'd start hanging out with someone a little, and then a lot. I didn't have difficulty meeting men, so I left it all up to chance. But I wasn't counting on the slim pickings in midlife. And lately, after a four-year period of intermittent soul-searching about my commitment phobia, and not much dating, I've been hankering to try again. I figure at this age, a good 10 or 20 years with someone is manageable. I'm tired of cooking for one, sleeping solo, and I worry about being alone in later years.
Meeting the matchmaker
While browsing through a local magazine one night I happened upon a matchmaker ad featuring a well-heeled businessman in his mid-forties looking for a woman around his age. I had no idea what the competition would be like, but if I passed the matchmaker's scrutiny I'd get a date with this guy. The ad did not provide a photo of him, but I guess because he pays all the fees it matters only what the women look like. Feeling reckless, I tossed off an email to the agency, and although it didn't ask for one, I confidently attached a photo.
A few days later, I received a reply asking me to come for an interview. I cancelled once, then rebooked.
So, one sunny afternoon in late May, I dressed myself in youthful pink and went to see the matchmaker. The expensive office decor—rich leather couches, deep cherrywood desks—must indeed have been funded by affluent men. The meeting was brief, a mere 15 minutes. The matchmaker asked me the usual questions about interests, hobbies, career, family. Then she lobbed some curveballs: Would I date a visible minority? Of course. Would I go out with someone overweight? Well, yes, as long as he was healthy. Older? Sure. Younger? No, not again. How about someone with a disability? Hmm. I want to travel and to be active, so I'd probably have to say no. Does that make me sound unco-operative? Immature? Prejudiced? She took my picture, assured me that a number of her clients would like me and promised to be in touch. That was it. Painless.
