Matchmaker, matchmaker
I AM HANDING a passenger a bottle of water. She popped into my galley to ask for one and I notice the guy sleeping soundly in the seat next to her. “Would you like a water for your husband?” I offer. “He’s not my husband but he’s really cute, isn’t he?”she says, a little wistfully.
She’s petite, trim, pretty. We start chatting. I learn she’s 42, never married, owns her own business, is obviously successful judging from her confident, easy manner and the effortless way she talks to me, a complete stranger. Her name is Julie and she is casually, expensively dressed. She is a hopeless failure at dating, I learn.
I immediately switch into matchmaking mode. I am an incurable romantic, a little yenta, that wizened old woman of Yiddish folklore responsible for coupling young people in her village. Julie lives in Atlanta. “Have you ever dated a Delta pilot?” I ask. “There are lots of them in Atlanta.” “No,” she says, “but I’d like to.” Well! I ask Julie some questions about her interests, preferences, plans for the future, what she wants in a man. I decide on a perfect pilot candidate, the antidote to Julie’s dating woes.
His name is Andy. I met him on a layover over drinks and dinner with the crew in some strange city somewhere, and we have been randomly thrown together again a few times since. He’s 46, never married, a co-pilot, has flown for Delta for 15 years, is ex-military and conservative politically like Julie. He, like Julie, plays golf and runs. He’s physically fit but short, but then, so is Julie. He’s balding slightly, but has a handsome face and an outgoing personality. Would she be interested? She is, so I take her business card, tell her I’ll leave it in Andy’s mailbox at work, hope for the best.
I write a message to Andy starting with a description of Julie, because after all, men are visual. I list her interests and hobbies which dovetail perfectly with Andy’s. I enclose her business card, encourage him to contact her. I walk over to the pilot lounge in Atlanta and put it in his mailbox. They would really like each other. I cross my fingers.
A couple of months later, I run into Andy. “Did you get my note?” “Yes.” “Did you call Julie?” “No.” “Why not?” “She’s TOO OLD!” Andy says emphatically. I shake my head, thinking silently, you’re 46- not exactly young yourself! And you’re short! And you’re going bald! Hardly a stud! Oh well. I tried…
Years later I run into Andy again. I barely recognize him. He’s married now, met his wife on a dating website. She’s blonde, beautiful, from Russia. They have four young children, born in quick succession, one right after the other. Andy is overweight, has lost almost all of his hair, is no longer the attractive single guy I wanted to introduce to a passenger. Now he’s in his mid-50s, Daddy to a gaggle of children.
No time for playing golf or going for a run with all those little kids at home, I surmise.
