The Sales Pitch

“I’m not necessarily signing up, I’m just going to hear what they have to say,” I tell my sister as I navigate the icy street, cell phone pressed to my ear. I am so sick of this weather. I wanted to wear the bulky Sorel boots. They keep my feet toasty warm and allow me to walk head up instead of staring at the ground warily watching out for puddles and slush, but I figured that wouldn’t be the best gear for an interview with a matchmaking service. So instead I wear black suede boots and try my best to stay dry.

The office is located steps from the financial district in the heart of the downtown core. There is a sign beside the door to their space that asks callers to ring the bell and wait for someone to greet you. I gather this is all in the name of discretion. No need to run into another lonely heart in the foyer I suppose. The girl who answers the door is so cheerful it makes my skin crawl a little as she ushers me into a private interview room and takes my coat. I feel a little vulnerable without it- kind of trapped. This is a trap though that I walked into.

The girl I’ve been speaking with on the phone comes into the room as I am nosing through the many framed newspaper and magazine clippings around the little room. She’s quite tall, with shoulder length blond hair, a lean athletic figure and a face looks like she could be the spawn of Barbara Streisand and Brad Pitt. She’s about the age I expected- probably late twenties. I sit in the chair across from her and I feel pretty uncomfortable. There’s something a little embarrassing about admitting that I’m lonely, especially to this tall blond with a big rock on her engagement finger.

I get the sense that she’s sizing me up physically and it makes me squirm a little. She tells me that she’s going to ask me a lot of questions and it could get a little invasive.

“I’m an open book,” I tell her, “Go ahead.” 

Most of the questions she asks are fairly benign, the kind you’d expect- what I am about- what do I like to do for hobbies, activity, what kind of family do I come from, how my friends would describe me.

“Would you say you have a zest for life?” she asks, and I can tell she’s really hoping I’ll agree.

Ha. A zest for life. If you call laying around watching movies and eating chocolate, occasionally wishing for a fatal illness a zest for life, then yes, I’m zesty. Truth is I have a zest for summer life and a loathing of winter life.

“Uh, yeah, but not always….I get down sometimes, doesn’t everyone?” I can’t lie. It’s a physical impossibility.

“Oh! Yeah, of course,” she says laughing, but I can tell she’s writing zest for life down under the great things about me, right next to honest.

At this point she asks me what I am looking for in a man. This is where things get a little hard to answer. Do I limit myself by being really specific, or should I keep it a little vague? I really like tall, fit guys with dark hair and blue eyes, but the last guy I fell for had a giant bald head and a bit of a belly, so how can I really say that’s what I like? In the end I decide to limit the matches to men above 5’10” with dark hair, or bald but not balding, and those who wear a white collar instead of a blue one or none at all. I tell her I am looking for a nice guy, and not interested in anyone arrogant or aggressive. She says she can think of a few guys right off the top of her head that would be great for me and that I’d be surprised at how many good-looking guys they have in their database. I am pretty sure that I read online on one of those consumer sites that this is part of their script, and I know I’m being sold, but I don’t really care at this point. I’m here and I’m signing. I’m open to giving this a try. I may regret it in the end, but how will I know otherwise?

“I knew you’d sign up,” said my sister as I call her on my way out of the building.

“Really? I didn’t, but I’m excited that I did.”

The Matchmakers

Valentine’s Day. I am embedded in my couch, sucking on a piece of dark chocolate, slowly morphing into the large squishy cushions around me. I put some thought to that. Really, am starting to look like my couch. They say people start to look like their partners after years together. Me? Well, let’s just say, my couch is large, soft and messy, and the more time we spend together, so am I. Just wait, when we run into each other next and you see I have developed olive-toned skin and my ass is twice the size it was the last time you saw me, then you’ll know my hypothesis is accurate- we begin to look like those with whom we spend the most time, partner or not. The local news channel is all hyped up on Valentines Day cheer and it’s making me gag a little on my chocolate. I’ve been sticking with the program because of a teaser they keep running before commercial break about some matchmaker lady who promises to find your soulmate within two years. This I have to see, but I’m having trouble coming up with the patience to make it through to the end of the show. Maybe one of these days I’ll attend one of those ADD support groups I’ve been hearing about. I peel myself out of the couch just long enough to grab my laptop. I’ll just Google matchmakers in my city and see if I can figure this out without the help of the trashy local news. My matchmaking query leads me down a few different routes. I find a lot of the regular online dating type sites, as well as the network type ones that are always sending pamphlets in the mail, and then your old-fashioned, hands on, terribly expensive personal matchmaker. On one of the sites I recognize the lady who is about to be on the news. She has been in the business many years with what she claims to be a very high success rate. She starts the process by coming to your home and interviewing you, so she can see how you live. I glance around my living room, taking in the awkwardness of the layout, screaming for a renovation, the crappy old television I am watching, the newer flat-screen LCD television that has been sitting on the floor leaning against the wall for weeks waiting to be hung up, wires strewn around the room, the chocolate bar wrapper crumpled up on the couch beside me and I see it all as a matchmaker would see it. I picture who she’d set me up with- some balding, pot-bellied handyman from the suburbs, the oposite of my type, if she’d even take me on as a project at all.  Just for interest’s sake I dig a little more to see how much this service costs and find at that minimum it’s $4,000, with some more difficult matches costing $15,000. I bet I’d be on the high end of that scale, but even $4,000 is sickening. I think of how much of Europe I could see with that money and head back to Google.

I find some other matchmakers around that have a similar set-up and fee structure, and yet some more that don’t charge women, but treat them more as stock on the shelf of a store. If you’re hot, thin, under 30,  and university educated, send us your application and photos and just maybe you might get a call from us and be put into our database with scores of other women waiting to go on dates with our rich male clients who pay for the service. Basically, it’s like a very large escort service with the possibility of marriage as a paycheque. No thanks.  

Finally, I find a site for a service that’s reasonably new to my city, a few years, that promises nothing more than 12-14 lunch dates with local professionals who just really haven’t had time to look for a partner but want to get out and date. This intrigues me a little. I like the idea of lunch dates, since my work as a real estate agent along with caring for my little girl demands most of my evenings. The cost, at $1600 is a little more reasonable as well. I decide to go in and check them out. I’m up for a new approach, because oddly enough, I’m not meeting any men in this couch.