Matchmaker, Make me a match

I was intrigued when the local newspaper ran a piece on a real, live matchmaker operating in Eugene. A Jewish matchmaker to boot. Saints be praised, my dreams were answered (okay, so I’m not Jewish, no matter).

A quick trip into Hollywood memory-land produced “Fiddler on the roof” and then “Crossing Delancey”. Ah, that was the one. Can’t beat a good data base in the brain. The basic story: Grandmother hires matchmaker, girl meets boy, boy loses girl, boy gets girl, the end.

As my grandmother is unavailable in the mortal world, I figure I’ll have to personally do the hiring. Enter Marilyn, the matchmaker. And my preconceived ideas: One-on-one; an interview; the matchmaker reviewing her client base and recommending Mr. So and So for a coffee date. I got some of it right.

We complete the interview such as it was, and this limitation was totally the fault of my imagination and getting stuck in that blasted mindset. My daughter says I live in my own world. I don’t necessarily think that’s a bad thing.

Marilyn’s service is like a computer dating site without the computer. Her method is a three-ring binder, one for men, one for women, a brief bio for each person in the front side of a clear plastic sheet with photo on back. Browsing through the sex-appropriate binder you get a feel for the person before you see them. But I didn’t understand this when I filled out my bio (thinking that only Marilyn would see it – see getting stuck in one’s own mindset can create issues…. I would have been sooooo much more creative had I just known.)

Marilyn cautioned me that she was short on men right now, like 3 women to 1 man, then handed over “the book” – which is divided by decade. So I begin at 50. And they all look so old. Continue on to 60. They look even older. Continue on to 70. Seventy – I’m floored. And by now totally bummed. Here is yet another grim look at my mortality. Jesus. More than that though, the thought of being 70 and looking for a mate…

Marilyn asks if I’d like anyone’s phone number. No way. I have to process. And wait for that gray feeling of doom in the pit of my stomach to go away.

Part of the program is a monthly mixer. I talk and talk and talk and finally get my best friend from 9th grade, also currently single, to accompany me to this function. 5:30 – 7:00. We make it at about 6:15, perfect. We peer in the windows at the designated coffee house AND ONLY THE BARRISTRA IS THERE. I bit the bullet, walked in and said I was looking for Marilyn, and am directed across the street to the International Café. That boded well, too large of a crowd had gathered for the small coffee house. We meander across the street and nonchalantly again peer in the windows (because we’re cool) and there is indeed a large group of people. Who are all old. Really, really old. Every single one of them with grey hair. I’m not old (in my mind) but I am immature. So is Melissa. We just keep walking. Fuck it.