“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.”