"The most beautiful thing in the world is a match well made."
-- Gwyneth Paltrow, Emma

The practice of arranged marriages through matchmaking has lasted centuries in India. Even with the rise of the educated middle class in the country, this type of marriage is still practiced 95% of the time; the big surprise being that the marriages are successful. It seems that the whole idea about heading out to that pickup joint on the corner in order to bag the wife you deem fit, simply isn't deemed necessary in India. The match is simply left up to the friends and family, who venture out to find just the right pairing for the potential bride or groom. And why shouldn't it be this way? I mean, who would be more capable of securing the mate of our dreams, than a level headed friend or family member who knows us utterly and completely, yet doesn't let sentiment and gushy feelings of love cloud their perspective? It’s seems that I must have been born on the wrong continent!

You see, my father was a matchmaker by trade. Way back in the shaggin' 60's, he opened up one of the first computer dating services, called it Date-a-Mate and launched the whole matchmaking spectacle from a perfectly positioned location on Hollywood's Sunset Strip. There he would take in the stats of singles looking for love, wave his wand over the magic computer-o-romance, and pull from out his hat, a well-suited pair. Yes, I make it sound easy. I'm neglecting to tell you about the 150 question survey, with topics ranging from sleeping patterns, to eating habits, to sexual preferences, to the number of bowel movements you have per day (apparently this is very important when looking for the right mate).

Let us fast forward to 2002 when it has now become very apparent that some Date-a-Mate gene must have slipped its way into my being. It seems I've been inflicted with some rare cupid syndrome, which is only curable through meddlesome acts of matchmaking between unsuspecting friends, family members, and yes, even strangers. In fact I can imagine that just having read thus far, there are a good many of my avid reader "friends" out there nodding their heads in affirmation, knowing that they themselves haven't even been able to escape my evil matchmaking wrath.

Ah yes, I've had my turn at the torture. I've been the girl tricked into meeting the "nice" guy; a friend of a friend who the matchmaking ‘friend’ has met only briefly, yet somehow feels completely confidant in vouching for. I've spent the night before tossing and turning at how I'd handle the unveiling of my matchmaking prize when my front door first opened to see him standing there on my welcome mat. I would then conjure up notions that might act as a safety net - perhaps I should change that mat to "Only Welcome if Not a Complete Ogre" before he gets here! Shame on me for conjuring up such negative images prior to even meeting the poor "thing" my friend had thought perfect for me! I mean, we all know that friends wouldn't ever match us up with someone they didn't find a truly viable candidate, right?

And then the evening arrives! Counting down in the two hour pre-date preparation scenario, I soak, scrub, shave, slather, buff, spray, scrunch, curl, pucker, and pluck, this being all the while interspersed with bouts of regret at having been tricked into such debauchery. Oh, and then there is the pacing. Thirty minutes prior, I begin "the pace" - a back and forth nerve induced promenade in front of my picture window at which I pronounce every shopping cart pushing vagabond my date du jour. Looking back on the torment of the preparation itself, you'd think I'd have learned that matchmaking doesn't oft lend itself to bouts of enthusiasm on the part of the dating victims. This thought quickly dissolves when the doorbell rings at precisely 7PM and I open it to find the most glorious specimen of a man I've ever cast eyes upon, holding fire red roses and brimming with a dashing pearly white smile. You see, I knew there'd be nothing to worry about. Too bad the dashing fella is here to pick up my roommate, leaving my date staggering in as the caboose, resplendent with tardy induced forehead perspiration in the place of flowers, and a sort of half grimace in the place of that pearly white smile. Perhaps my roomy wouldn't notice if I swapped!

In the matchmaking scenario, it's not uncommon to expect that you'll have to endure a dinner filled with five separate answered calls on his cell phone, four complaints about the food and service, and one spilled drink (his red wine on my white sweater). Oh, and who could forget the fascinating demonstration on his ability to manufacture seafood (as in see food) by chewing and then letting morsels of the meal drop from his mouth onto the plate before him. Need I go into the other torturous events I've endured upon dates with those creatures my friends thought could be my Mr. Perfect? There was the mini race car incident wherein my quite portly date and I got stuck (literally) in the car and required 2 attendants, not to mention jokes about retrieving the jaws of life, to pry us out. Then there was the set-up wherein I thought I was meeting a venture capitalist that had come up with some brilliant profit-making scheme for the internet. The only problem came in finding that this scheme had thus earned him the title of 'Porn King of the Internet', after he'd started the most profitable smut site out there. Now there's a match I'd definitely be proud to bring home to mama.

But all these past recollections of matchmaking disasters seem to somehow dissipate with the onset of the cupid virus. It comes from nowhere, this sudden urge to match an unsuspecting pair. I then formulate my attack, and pounce! The only problem I've found, is that unlike my father, who would receive letters from happy couples who had reached the alter due to his handy work, I sucked at playing cupid. The mismatches I made not only led to complete chaos, but also to notions within my friends minds that I simply didn't know then as well as they thought.

So the number one thing to remember prior to taking on this hard to fill role as cupid is the 100% guarantee that you will be blamed should something go wrong! If anything and everything does go awry, as oft does when you introduce two strangers under the pretense that they'll be perfect for each other, you can pretty much rest assured that you'll be targeted as the culprit. No matter how many times you swear up and down that you had no clue he had a criminal record, three children from three different partners, or worse, had no idea this was a set-up, you can expect that you'll never fully hear the end of the torment you put your victim through.

The second thing to remember, is that it is hardly ever wise to make a match between two of your close friends, unless of course you're 110% positive that they'll live happily ever after. Although it is hard to refrain from coupling two single friends both hoping to find their perfect someone, the odds that they'll truly fall madly in love with each other are slim to none. So what happens when they don't hit it off, or worse, when one falls and the other runs? Not only will you be blamed in this scenario, but you'll also pay the price for your meddlesome act by forever having to quarantine the two parties off from one another during group activities.

So there you have it...Lessons learned from a recovering matchoholic. The biggest lesson being that the shoes of the diaper wearing cherub named cupid are simply too big to fill. Perhaps things would be different if we lived in a society less prone to free choice, less in awe with the idea that love should come before marriage, and more accepting at having their fate placed in the hands of someone other than themselves. As for this matchmaker, I’m packing my bags for India as we speak. Seems there’s quite a calling ‘round those parts for those of us inflicted with that ever so meddlesome cupid syndrome.