Matchmaker, Matchmaker
Today, I received an e-mail from a woman I don’t know asking me to set up a friend of hers. I’ve never met either of these women—never even heard of them—and yet they’ve charged me with the task of playing matchmaker.
They learned of me through the somewhat moldy grapevine that is always threatening to strangle the greater Midwest lesbian community. These women live three states away from me, and somehow managed to hear of my remarkable matchmaking skills.
That’s right—I’m a matchmaker. I don’t do it for money or even for fun (it usually just makes me anxious). I do it because it’s my calling. It’s like telling Liberace not to own poodles, or Bette Midler not to show cleavage. I simply must match-make.
It’s strange that I match-make as a hobby, especially considering my mostly ghastly personal romantic choices.
If I had the choice between some heartless, wicked ass and someone who is really nice, selfless, and bakes her own bread, I’d choose the ass every time.
In spite of that, though, I’m weirdly obsessed with finding exactly the right person for everyone else on the planet.
The first thing I do when I meet a single person (gay or straight) is to inquire about his or her “type.” I deeply respect the “type.” The key to successful matchmaking is instant physical attraction. If you don’t understand the importance of lust, you’ll never make it as a matchmaker.
Recently, I was watching a TV show where a matchmaker desperately tried to shove an unattractive woman down a rather hunky guy’s throat. It was a disaster, and everyone got hurt in the end.
The poor guy was painfully polite, and his date was deeply uncomfortable to be in the presence of such awesome beauty. She kept looking away from him, as if by staring directly at him with her dull, little eyes, she might fry her corneas.
Yes, it would be fantastic if the real world were a Disney film where inner beauty blinds suitors to your outer ugliness, but it’s not.
Everyone wants to be with someone better looking than him or her. So, the trick to making a successful match is to find a pair who have about the same level of physical attractiveness, but who have certain characteristics that convince the date he or she is, in fact, physically superior.
The confidence to wear fancy hats is always a good differentiator. Anyone who can speak fluent French, or at least enough French to fool a waiter, bounces several notches up the attractiveness scale.
Once you’ve found a lust match, you refine the match by pairing for personality and intelligence. Frankly, no one cares if you share a passion for ant farming if he or she doesn’t find you sexy.
The most important part of matchmaking is to run away as soon as you make the match. I’m not kidding. Get them to their first date, and run far away.
There is absolutely no benefit to sticking around to see how it turns out. If it’s a disaster, they’ll blame you. If they get married, you might get a mention during a wedding toast, but don’t count on it.
No one likes to admit being set up. People in love want to perpetuate the fantasy that romantic couplings are magical things happening only to very special people.
It’s fate! It’s not the work of some bored matchmaker you’ve never met before, clicking through her registry of desperate singles, and tossing you together with as much care and thought as a sloppy kindergartener selecting the perfect colors of finger paint.
Hey! I wrote a book. You can buy Dateland on Amazon.
