It's a set-up!

What I'm going to bring to your attention today is a global phenomenon that is perhaps the greatest personal threat we face as human beings.  It is a ritual that has been carried out on the willing and the captive since time immemorial and is insidious, pervasive and downright evil.  It is known colloquially as The Set-Up.

It is easy to spot the victims of this form of societal bullying; just follow the corpses of romantic ideals and friendships.  To illustrate my argument against matchmaking, and to drown out the cries of protest from those who fall in to the lucky five per cent of the population for whom it has been successful, let me provide you with some examples.

Last year, a friend of mine had just sent her boyfriend packing, quite literally; she even paid for his passage back to America, for a myriad of reasons.  After five years, his cheating, domineering ways had finally spurred her into action.  Not to mention the fact that he drained her of most of her savings.  She had begun to rebuild her life and her self-esteem was improving daily, and it was good to see her happy again.  Then one day, she said something so unconscionable it almost pains me to write it here. 

'He's a really funny guy, and very loyal.  He's thinking about coming back here in a few months, I reckon we should set something up; he'd be good for you.'

I doubt this needs explanation, but for the few readers who are still in the dark as to what my 'friend' was trying to facilitate, it is what I like to call the 'Match of convenience,' IE: if Love Rat and I were successfully matched, it would be wonderfully convenient for her.  I declined the invitation, very politely under the circumstances. 

A woman I once worked with was set up by her best friend in an arrangement I like to call the 'Broaden your horizons because I say so' set-up.  Armed with the knowledge that her friend favoured a particular physical type; tall, dark, and handsome; she then went about setting her up with a workmate of her husbands who was the complete physical opposite, citing that it would be good for her not to be so picky when it came to physical attractiveness.  Not only was the date unsuccessful, it also put a strain on the friendship that never really went away.  Still, it didn't end badly for all concerned; it turned out that the architect of the set-up had been harbouring a crush on her husband's friend for several years, and when he was sent by her husband to pick her up at the train station, he took her to his place.  A month later, it became their place.  

The final example I'd like to lay on you comes courtesy of a former neighbour of mine.  She was referred to by most of her family as 'Poor Thing,' in light of her limited romantic and vocational prospects (from their point of view).  To help her, and undoubtedly absolve herself of responsibility for her part in her daughter's misfortune, her mother set her up with a friend's son.  Stacey couldn't believe her luck; Richard was gorgeous, funny, and polite to an other-worldly degree.  He fit her criteria perfectly!  The two of them were married two years later and even had a daughter, so I guess you might say it was a successful set-up. 

Reserve judgement until the end of the story.

Within months of the wedding, cracks started appearing in their relationship.  Stacey ignored them, attributing Richard's moods to homesickness, seeing as, at thirty-one, this was his first time living away from home, and he was still acclimatising himself to living with someone with different habits and rituals than those of his father and stepmother.  Things did improve when Stacey discovered she was pregnant, but once the baby was born, life in her household returned to its familiar unsteady rhythm.  When she finally decided to question Richard about it, on the morning of their daughter's second birthday, he irritably confessed that he didn't love her, and that the only reason he was with her was because his father needed him out of the house so that he could leave his second wife with a clear conscience. 

Given the end result, I suppose you could call this a set-up of in-convenience. 

I'm not saying that all set-ups are doomed from their inception, I'm just saying that the next time a friend/loved one/well-meaning-sticky nose says they know someone who would be perfect for you, consider their motivations first, and never doubt your own instincts. 

My mother, my pimp.

Anyone who has ever been set up on a blind date will agree with me that nothing short of a bowel embolism even comes close to comparing to how you feel as you wait for the inevitable to occur.  He'll arrive, you'll go out, one or both of you will be disappointed and one awkward goodbye later, you're back on your couch watching Sleepless in Seattle just for the pleasure of throwing popcorn at Meg Ryan and her infuriatingly indomitable face.  To be fair, I did have one blind date that ended well.  I was twenty three then.  We stayed together for five years.  We were even in the process of getting married until he met a cute blond on a day out with his football team and launched me back into spinsterhood with a toddler and ten extra kilos hanging off my waist.  But, I digress.

The worst thing about a bad blind date, apart from the date itself, is having to tell the architect of the romantic plan that, not only do you not want to be set up again, but that if she was to use her character judgement in the political arena, Britney Spears would be the unquestioned leader of the not-so-free world.  If she's a true friend, she might be a little hurt, but you'll both be able to laugh it off later.  The situation becomes a tad more complicated when you and the would be matchmaker share a genetic bond.  That's right, people, I'm talking about my mother.  Undeterred by the fact that the last man she set me up with married the woman of his dreams a year after our own relationship imploded, she is still determined to ensure that her daughter finds someone to love, and is convinced that if the task falls to me, her grandson and his betrothed will be picking out strollers at Baby Co while I'm cruising for sugar daddies on Senior Dating.com.  My mother is of the view that you can be friends with someone first and learn to love them later.  I'm more old fashioned; if I don't have sweaty palms, starry eyes and a mental image of myself wearing nothing but his shirt within the first ten minutes of meeting him, chances are it ain't gonna work. 

Yes my gut has steered me wrong in the past, leading me to fall head over heels for men who gave me nothing more than some very interesting evenings and traces of Hugo Boss on my sheets, but I would still prefer that to the agony of sitting through dinner with a cab driver who my mum described as 'Very eager' when he saw my picture, only to discover that he needed a wife to be granted residency.  I visit my mother three times a week and although I'm an atheist, I always find myself closing my eyes on the journey to her house, silently praying that when I get there, there won't be any available men in the vicinity.  Surely she's exaggerating, you say.  Well, imagine my surprise when one day last month I arrived at her place, only to be spirited off to the bathroom where I was fussed and fretted over like I was Kate Moss doing a runway show after a McDonald's binge. 

'You could have worn something nicer, love,' she sighed. 

'Why,' I asked, 'Are we going to a funeral?' 

She ushered me over to the window, just about breaking the glass with my face in her effort to give me the best view possible of a hot young guy who was painting her neighbour's house.  I grinned.  Then the thunder claps sounded.

'Oh, and I've set it all up with his dad.'

'Excuse me?'  I shrieked.

My mother, pimp extraordinaire, was laying the ground work while I was still peeling my face off the pillow that morning.  It turned out that the house painters were a father son team, and that the father was just as concerned about the lack of traffic leading to his son's bedroom as my mother was about not becoming a grandmother for the second time.  It was at this point that I reminded my mother that I wasn't sixteen, and that there was little or no dowry to be traded in exchange for my hand.

To anyone reading this who doesn't find the idea of a blind date more terrifying than a pelvic exam, I applaud your courage.  You have decided not to limit your options and who knows, your matchmaker might know your type better than you do yourself.  I, however, am going to continue to rely on my questionable judgement, and have a blast while I'm at it.