As I lamented earlier this month, I accidentally became embroiled in a misunderstanding of epic dating proportions. My co-worker, along with some help from my oblivious self, unknowing signed me up for a matchmaking service. After a rough start with the matchmaker, who thought my compatibility profile was low because I dared to request a man over 5’10 to compliment my 5’10 self, she quickly retracted her original concerns.
Only 10 hours after telling me that I might not be a good fit (literally) for her service because of my height and need for an equally tall man, Ms. Matchmaker called me with good news. She didn’t have just horse jockeys in her database! She had average size men too! Hearing this news at 8am on a Friday (a day when I can sleep in a bit and not rush out), I was not at all thrilled. I was sitting pantless on my couch in the midst of my coffee and an episode of House Hunters. I was not at all prepared for, nor in the mood to get deep into relationships and set-ups and the potential for me actually hiring someone to help me date. I thanked Ms. Matchmaker nontheless, feeling secretly validated that I am not one of those ridiculously picky women who will never get a man because she’d rather not feel like the Jolly Green Giant on a date. Just as I was about to politely blow her off the phone, Ms. Matchmaker said, “Okay, well then let’s get to the in-depth interview portion.” Crap! This was the part I had been dreading since first becoming aware of my accidental new relationship with a matchmaker. She was about to ask me a lot of dating questions, questions designed to secretly diagnose my emotional issues, devise a plan to combat my dating inefficiencies, and force me to clarify my wish list for potential mates.
How do I feel about looks? Aside from height, am I typical attracted to darker skin? Blue eyes? How am I supposed to tell her that I really like the shaggy lax bro, preppy frat boy look and not lose my credibility as a grown adult who should have grown out of that attraction a decade ago? Do I care about race? Hmmm, never really thought about it, but if even I had a preference, am I really going to vocalize race specific criteria? What about religion? As a fallen Catholic with a complicated relationship at best with organized religion, I don’t know. I don’t really care, but have I really rejected my faith enough to possibly go in the direction of a religion-free relationship? Could I convert to another faith if that was important to this hypothetical man Ms. Matchmaker was unearthing for me? Suddenly, the panic set in—like the overwhelming feeling I experience when I walk into IKEA. That all I had thought about was a simple desk and now I am faced with a labyrinth of choices that look great on the models, but I know I can’t quite pull them off.
It was clear to Ms. Matchmaker, as I gave her background about my past relationships, that I am a commitment phobe who loves going after jerks. She interrupted my soap opera tale to tell me, very simply, “You are strong. They are weak. They seek you out because they need your strength.” As someone who enjoys sage advice, spiritual advisors, and self help books, I quickly latched on to this information, thinking that such enlightenment is just what I need in order to transform into a functional dater. But then Ms. Matchmaker said, “These things are involved in my coaching services, which is separate from my matchmaking services. But you remind me of myself, so I wanted to tell you this.” So was I going to have to be coached as well, just to make me dateable?
Ms. Matchmaker concluded the interview with the assurance and excitement that she can find me some great men and that I have so much potential because really, I remind her of herself. And just like that, Ms. Matchmaker had me on my laptop, checking my email to confirm my information and look at the contract she had somehow drawn up in the midst of her diagnosis session. This was problematic for me because when it comes to tax forms and contracts and all of the complicated grown up paper work, I am a child. I still consult my legally-minded parents for advice…and well, translation. Ms. Matchmaker wanted me to sign this paperwork electronically. Right there. Right then, as she was giving me a 90 second overview of the contract highlights. These major contractual features were lost on me, as I was still trying to furiously scan my email to see if I had somehow already committed myself to this or if I was going to be charged for this phone interview session. Well that, and I was trying to figure out why the first line of the contract was asking for my drivers license number. Was I going to have to provide a blood and urine sample too? Also, I like time to think. I wanted to make sure that if I signed up with the matchmaker, I was going to put on my big girl pants, actually date, and take this process seriously. After all, I am the girl who tends to impulse buy with no prior thought or research. Things like my car, my $30,000+ graduate school education, and my €200 authentic dirndl.
It was only after Ms. Matchmaker went through the features of the contract that she began to gloss over one very important factor—the most important factor to all normal middle class, hardworking individuals out there—the price. From having watched The Millionaire Matchmaker, I had this fantastical notion that as a woman, I wouldn’t be charged to join this dating service. But then when I started to think that I’d be a client she was matching FOR, I accepted that I would probably have to pay a fee. And okay, maybe a couple of hundred dollars isn’t so bad. Maybe this is a new and safer way to meet quality people. After all, Ms. Matchmaker kept emphasizing the safety of her service and the caliber of people she accepts.
But when my anxious eyes got to the bottom of the electronic contract, I saw the one little tiny line that mentioned the $2500 fee. $2500 for a six month membership. After that, it’s only about $100 a month to maintain my membership. $2500—does this woman know how many classes I have to teach, how many papers I have to grade, how many hours I have to tutor in order to earn that amount? It wasn’t that $2500 was an expensive price point and an impractical way to my spend my money. It was that I don’t even have this money. And if I did, it would go to more practical concerns, like my car payments or my student loans. I felt duped. She should have advertised her services as exclusive rights only available to the rich and undateable. Poor undateables like myself are relegated to OkCupid and Tinder.
Feeling like a real dumbass, I didn’t want to openly tell Ms.Matchmaker, “Sorry. Too expensive. I don’t have the money. Thanks anyway.” I’m sure she must have mentioned something about the price range, but having only talked to her on the phone while driving through tunnels in DC traffic and then off guard when I was still half asleep, I just didn’t pick up on it. Yes, this makes me an idiot, but I truly don’t recall her telling me a price. And I didn’t even bother to ask because I was so much more concerned with not coming across as an emotionally challenged human being.
For a brief moment, I considered selling the $2500 idea to my parents. Maybe it could be an advance on my inheritance? Or an investment in their future grandbabies? Or maybe just a pity gift since they put out so much money for my sister’s wedding? But then I returned to my senses and realized that even if they did give me the money, I would feel pressured to secure a boyfriend in this process. And let’s face it, I would have been out of my league. Clearly, I don’t roll in the same crowd as people who can drop $2500 on a precarious dating membership—people who, as Ms. Matchmaker told me, often own boats, country club memberships, and vacation homes in exotic locations. I have a communal apartment pool, a discount gym membership, and a coupon for a free stay at one of the casinos in Atlantic City. Clearly, it’s not a match.
And so, to avoid embarrassing myself further (now that I had bared my soul) and wasting more of this woman’s time, I diffused the situation by definitively stating that my parents would be paying for my membership, and I would have to call her back with their credit card number. She was hard pressed to get off the phone with me, but I insisted that I would call her back by lunch time. After stalling for about two hours, I sent an email to Ms. Matchmaker. I thanked her for her time (since I really did feel terrible for unintentionally leading her on) but unfortunately my parents weren’t willing to put out that much money. When I knew it was safe to call her office and get her voicemail, I followed up with a lovely, polite message.
So it turns out that JLo was wrong all along. Love do cost a thing. And it’s a price I can’t afford.
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