On Matchmaking

"Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match, Find me a find, catch me a catch…”  That old song has been on my mind today.  Strangely enough (…she remarked wryly enough).  Amidst the autumnal infusion of rain, wind, clouds, and ugly bugs which I observe outside my window at present, I also calmly note a burst of matchmaking energy in my vicinity.  But when I meditate on this phenomenon, I realize that the custom of Matchmaking, sponsored by the goodwill of caring friends and family, is inevitably imposed to some degree on the life of any woman over twenty years of age until the day when she is safely married off.  You see, there is the biological clock to consider.  (For men, the age may be slightly higher—but the fairer sex is not the exclusive focus of various philanthropists’ romantic meddling.  After all, it takes two to tango.)

At any rate, I’ve freshly heard it through the grapevine that a certain young man of my acquaintance has been selected as my tango partner.  (This came as little surprise to me, as there is simply a paucity of options within this particular set of people.)  Conversely, I have recently been selected as a romantic candidate for another young man of my acquaintance.  This not to mention the multitude of thoughtful setups in my history—they range from the well-thought-out-considering-personalities-and-compatibility sort to the eyeing-that-attractive-guy-across-the-room type.  By nature, moms are the worst.  And you know exactly who you are and what I mean.

I have one dear friend in particular who sincerely believes she is The Authority when it comes to matchmaking—a maven in the field of romantic arrangement.  Her motto may well be borrowed from Emma: “The most beautiful thing in the world is a match well made.”  (Forgive me, but it was necessary to regurgitate a previous quotation.)  She cites the two “successful” unions which appear on her contrived record as reason enough to trust implicitly her judgment on such matters, consistently disregarding the fact that Some of her subjects (yours truly included) continue to reject her unaltered choice for their supposed Mr. Right.  Really, some people are just incorrigible.

Nevertheless, I find it oddly pleasant to know that I am not the only one rooting for my romantic bliss.