I’m at Urth Caffé in West Hollywood and I can’t stop fidgeting. I’m waiting to meet someone -- a date! -- for the first time, and I’m hoping that the right arrangement of my hands will lead to everlasting love. Or at least like. Or maybe even like-like. Honestly, I’ll take what I can get.
That said, this isn’t your standard blind date/hook-up app situation: I haven’t met this woman before, I didn’t swipe right on her, and we don’t have any friends in common. She was selected for me. That sounds both impressive and horrifying, but it’s true. She was selected for me by a matchmaker.
It’s not 1957. How did it come to this?
I’ve lived in LA, on and off, for about four years now. During most of that time, I’ve been wildly, definitively, stubbornly single. If I’m being honest, “single” has been my natural state for most of my adult life. I think I’m a decent enough fella, but I never seem to make “dating” work. As a Los Angeleno in the modern era, “dating” has mostly revolved around apps. Oh, the apps. Tinder. Bumble. Hinge. It seems like every month there’s a new one. I download them all, do a whole lot of swiping and... nothing. My thumbs get plenty of exercise, but not much more. In the past two years, I’ve had maybe three matches turn into dates. I got stood up once, the other two were each an awkward, stilted date -- then done.